


Dream, of the Endless Variety

by InsertImaginativeNameHere



Category: Hellblazer, Inception (2010), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:52:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertImaginativeNameHere/pseuds/InsertImaginativeNameHere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among the extraction community, the pale man is a legend, whispered about in corners where nobody can here you. When Dom Cobb dreams for the first time in a long while, he sees the pale man, and so decides it's time for the truth about the mysterious stranger to be discovered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I might not update this particularly frequently, because I'm currently working on the Mystery of the Vanishing Dead Guy and committing to regular updates, but this should be an interesting idea. I can't believe I haven't seen anyone do this before. Okay, I'd have preferred to write Morpheus, my precious beloved child, but the story demanded the new incarnation (I don't really like referring to him as Daniel since he explicitly states he ISN'T Daniel but anyway, minor quibbles aside). Originally I thought of this by thinking about Joseph Gordon-Levitt potentially playing Morpheus (which he possibly is, I think) and thought 'hey, WHAT IF' before realising that a) the film of Sandman is a work in progress and not even out yet and b) because of Inception's timeline, the incarnation of Dream we'd see here is sadly, well, NOT MORPHEUS. Sadtimes, huh? Anyway, here goes nothing.
> 
> Also I ignore certain events that take place in the spin-off comic 'The Dreaming' a) because I didn't know about them, b) because I'M NOT HAPPY ABOUT THEM and c) time is flexible. Those events can easily be postponed until AFTER this fic. Whereas Morpheus could not have been postponed. I did not know about the events in 'The Dreaming' (tbh I don't think most people do who even read that - I probably should but I DON'T WANT TO NOW I WILL CRY) until after writing this fic AND I'M VERY ANGRY NO NO aaaaanyway.

He was dreaming, and that was the first odd part. Dom Cobb didn’t dream anymore, hadn’t since Limbo since Mal; but as he drifted off after a long day out with James and Philippa, images floated through his head, bright, colourful pictures, unbidden and unhindered.  _ Dreams.  _ Sunlight rose over the sprawling hills, a golden crescendo of dawn. It was a beautiful wilderness, mountains as far as the eye could see, forests in the lowlands below, a vast palace in the distance, barely visible but clearly elegant and majestic in nature, the pipe dream of any architect worth their salt. Standing up, Dom  resolved to take a closer look at the structure more closely, the soaring tower, the minute intricacies of the carvings, the broad wooden gates…

  
  


How long he walked for, he was uncertain, time passed strangely in dreams: he knew that better than anyone else, as he stumbled over jagged rocks he was keenly aware of the strangeness of his situation. He was dreaming, actually dreaming! What the  _ hell?  _

  
  


As the slopes led him down, into a dark, fairytale forest, he began to feel more and more uneasy. Something about this place felt wrong. This wasn’t a normal dream, not that he remembered quite what normal dreams should feel like. There was something more than just surreal about this place, no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t alter his surroundings, couldn’t change things, and he was an expert lucid dreamer. It wasn’t working. It felt almost like someone else were controlling the dream, who - other extractors? If so, they were better than any he’d seen before, and besides, if so, there would be others present, his or someone else’s subconscious. No, this was not an extraction, he would know if it was, would  _ remember.  _ There was something inhuman in the design, in the sharp breath on the wind, the tang of bitter pine needles, the unearthly feel of everything around him. This was a dream, and only a dream, he could forgive it for being unusual and yet, and yet - 

  
  


Something about it was simultaneously more and less real, everything put his teeth on edge, the phantom rustles in the forest, that when he turned betrayed the passage of...nothing.

  
  


_ Paranoia. Typical dream-state. Nothing unusual there. _ He tried to reassure himself with common knowledge, old motifs of older extractors, except he knew one thing: he didn’t dream at all anymore, was not biologically capable thanks to years, yes, years, in induced sleep. He didn’t dream, not since he stopped accessing his memories and dreaming about  _ her _ ,since he moved on She was gone. Since then, he slept. And he woke. Without interruption.

  
  


Now neurones were firing, REM-sleep creating images before him. Creating? Or perceiving what was set before it? Now that was a question. Questions without answers, locks without keys.  _ Dreams within dreams. _

  
  


A break in the treeline: he rushed towards it eagerly to see the castle rising before him, the beautiful, elaborate,  _ impossible  _ castle, looming over with an almost sinister agency, turrets gleaming in the sunlight, an infinity of stairs leading up to the enormous, solid gates. His heart stopped, his breath caught in his throat. Nobody could have designed that, not himself, nor any architect he knew. A final confirmation someone else was at work.

  
  


The woods behind him fell to a hush, deathly silence, and he turned to see, to see, to see what?

  
  


_ To see  _ _ him. _

  
  


There he was, the tall pale man, extractors the world over gossiped and theorized about, but few actually encountered, much less saw face to face like this. Dom, on the other hand, he remembered. Something in the unending days in Limbo, the glimpse of that stranger around the corner, always present somewhere. His tangle mass of white hair, his robe which wrapped around him, shone a similar colour - or, rather, not a colour, a  _ neutral.  _ Purest white. His face was young and ancient, peaceful, innocent, but by no means naïve ; rather, old, wise,  _ other  _ instead. There was an emerald on a chain around his neck.

  
  


And inside his hollow eye sockets, stars gleamed, incandescent fires within, burning all the while with mysterious intensity.

  
  


Dom woke up.

  
  


-

  
  


He called Arthur immediately.

  
  


“Cobb, it’s three in the morning-”

  
  


“ I saw him. Arthur, I had a  _ dream  _ and I saw the pale man. I think I know how to find him. We need to meet, get a team together. Are you still in the States?”

  
  


“Yeah, I am, so far as I know Eames is hustling in Vegas and Ariadne’s graduating this week so I can collect her.”

  
  


A pause.

  
  


“You do that. Get Professor Miles too. He’s practically an expert. Meet me next Thursday. I’ll send you details on the location tomorrow morning.”

  
  


“See you then. And be caref-” Beep. “He hung up on me,” muttered Arthur, offended. “Dammit.”

  
  


-

  
  


Indeed, Ariadne was graduating only two days later, with full honours, and as she accepted the congratulations from her professor, she saw him suddenly stare at something behind her and colour ever-so-slightly. She turned to follow his gaze.

  
  


“Arthur-” she broke off “I didn’t expect to see you here. Nothing’s the matter, is it?”

  
  


Arthur sighed, usual put-upon attitude seeping through. “Something unusual happened,” He looked at Professor Miles “Actually, you know more about it than I do. There’s been a sighting.”

  
  


“Of what?” Ariadne asked, but the others elected to ignore her. 

  
  


“Who saw him?”

  
  


“Dom.”

  
  


“He had a dream?” the professor inhaled sharply and Ariadne sensed concern for his troubled son-in-law. “How much did he tell you?”

  
  


“Almost nothing, but he wanted to meet.”

  
  


“Of course he did,” Professor Miles laughed mockingly. “Well. I suppose I’d better ask when our flight is.”

  
  


“Excuse me,” Ariadne interrupted “What’s going on. I’m confused.”

  
  


“Of course you are,” said the professor bluntly “You’re unfamiliar with key parts of extractor subculture. You’re new to this world, and to be quite frank, you should stay away from it. But no-one ever can, that’s the thing. Well, Arthur? Do you want to tell her what you’re here for?”

  
  


“ Way back in the 80s, when entering dreams first became possible, there were... _ rumours _ , of a strange, pale man, dressed all in black. Allegedly he had complete control over the content of the dreams, so that even the best architect would find themselves lost in buildings they hadn’t designed.”

  
  


“ Not allegedly,” Professor Miles cut in “I was  _ there. _ He makes us look like children.”

  
  


“Anyway,” Arthur continued. “Somewhere in the mid-90s the sightings stopped, then picked up again, except this time the pale man wore white, had white hair instead as black. All the accounts agree on one thing though - his eyes were like stars.”

  
  


“Who - or what - is he?” Ariadne asked with some trepidation.

  
  


Professor Miles shrugged vaguely. “That’s the thing. When you look into it more, he appears in myths dating back thousands of years, across all cultures. Among extractors, he’s almost a deity. You might think of him as the Sandman.”

  
  


“No,” Ariadne shook her head. “He’s a bedtime story. There’s no such thing.”

  
  


“I agree,” said Arthur “Personally, I don’t think the pale man is a person at all, nothing more than a natural human delusion. An evolved belief, a shared dream. Human nature. Eames disagrees, of course, because he’s-”

  
  


“Bloody argumentative.” Professor Miles finished. “How is the old fraud anyway?”

  
  


“The usual,” Arthur replied noncommittally. “Gambling, conning strangers, sleeping around. You know what he’s like.”

  
  


“Reminds me of an exorcist fellow I used to know back in the day. Only with more redeeming features, and less occult murders wherever he goes.”

  
  


“Anyway,” Arthur glanced at his watch, quickly trying to change the topic to something more comfortable. “Saito’s giving us free flights on his airline, keeping us on tenure so to speak. What do you say? Are you in?”

  
  


“How could I miss this? The semester’s ended, and anyway, you young people’ll need my research. I know more about the pale man than you’ll ever forget, Arthur, and besides, Dom’s an idiot. I should be there.”

  
  


“What about you?” Arthur turned to Ariadne. His face seemed so hopeful, she couldn’t possibly turn him down, besides, she hadn’t seen Cobb in a while, wasn’t sure how he was doing. Still, she had to ask a question that was pressing on her mind.

  
  


“In what, exactly? What’s the job?”

  
  


The Professor smiled faintly and Arthur said: “We’re going looking for him.”

  
  


“It’s impossible, of course,” Professor Miles muttered.

  
  


“Yeah, well, so was inception. If anyone can do it, it’s us.”

  
  


“What do you need me for?” Ariadne asked curiously. “You’ve already got an architect if Professor Miles is going, and anyway, I think Cobb can build again now that-” she hesitated “Where exactly do I fit into all of this?”

  
  


Arthur blinked, confused. “You’re part of the team. We wouldn’t do this without you. Besides, somebody needs to tell Cobb when to get his head out of his ass, and he’ll listen to you.”

  
  


“Will he?” she couldn’t help but sound dubious.

  
  


“Of course he will.” Arthur smirked “If he doesn’t, you’ll give him hell.”

  
  


Swelling with pride, Ariadne quickly called a cab and went back to her apartment, where she filled a suitcase and then headed straight for the airport to meet the others, with God only knew what waiting for her on the other end. 

  
  


-

  
  


_ In the castle deep within the very heart of the Dreaming, on a grand throne, sits a figure in white. For a few moments, he sits in silence, lost in his own thoughts, staring at a fixed point somewhere far away. There is a long silence, seared in two by the raucous caw of a raven, a very particular, very important raven. _

  
  


_ The figure looks up. “Matthew,” he murmurs “Head out towards the desert at the edge of the Dreaming. We will soon be having visitors. Please escort them here.” _

  
  


_ The raven shrugs as best a raven can. “If you say. Who’re we expecting, if you don’t mind my asking?” _

  
  


“ _Not at all,” the figure in white says in a soft, but clear voice. “Do you remember Mr Cobb…?”_

  
  


_ Matthew the raven nods, flies off then, to await the anticipated guests. In the meantime the figure on the throne stands and moves toward the window. Outside, the sky is bright, cloudless, cornflower blue. There is nothing of note out there, nothing you or I might perceive, but evidently the figure in white sees more because he nods, as if accepting some unwritten, unspoken truth, then exits the hall and the palace itself altogether. _

  
_ For there is, as ever, much work to be done. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to whoever spotted the Hellblazer reference, hats off to you bro.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames makes signs with the children, Arthur is worried about pretty much everything and won't let Eames drive. Questions are raised about the nature of Limbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hey again. Yes I've not abandoned this. It's going to be FUN. It's not going to be fun. Some of this reads like crack, please excuse the crossover-y nature of this fic. Also I probably admire Eames too much. But whatever. Enjoy.

Chapter 2

  
  


It had, in chronological, real-time, been six months since a team of gifted extractors had performed extraction, but it was also an age, eons stretching out deep inside the uncharted expanse of Limbo. Within a dream, it could last anything from twenty years to several centuries, depending upon factors such as sedation used and depth of the dream, how far down into the rabbit hole your merry band of madmen (or women, it was by no means an unprogressive subculture) went. Add that to the fact that, above the surface of unconsciousness, most extractors topped the International Fugitives, Government databases and corporate hit-lists, the average life-span was simultaneously shorter and longer than the average person, years spent in unreality. Until inception, Dom himself had lived on those lists, hopping from one to the other has he fled around the world, always running, always afraid for his life. He hadn’t worked a job since. His freedom, the dropping of the charges against him,was spent with his children. Officially, he had promised future services to Saito as the payment of a debt he could never fully repay, to guarantee future safety, but he’d also promised Philippa a pony, and in the scheme of things both were equally probable.

  
  


There was enough cash in his accounts to keep himself and his family afloat, he wasn’t desperate enough to go back to _that._ In fact, it was part of the arrangement he had with his mother-in-law; he was allowed custody so long as he stayed away from other people’s dreams.

  
  


She had never mentioned anything about his own.

  
  


So yes, he was lying to her. She’d lost a daughter, and though she’d known he hadn’t killed Mal, that didn’t stop her blaming him for the loss. And everyone and their mother knows children are a pressure point - if people wanted to get to Dom Cobb, they would go through his kids. That was another thing that scared her, if powerful people decided James and Philippa were fair game. Fair enough. It terrified him too, haunted him at night when he wasn’t sleeping, because if he slept he _wouldn’t_ dream.Well. Wasn’t supposed to dream.

  
  


“A man’s here to see you, Dom.” He looked up from his desk, plans for a building somewhere in reality, a legitimate job he was working on. She was standing over him, looking typically disdainful “English. One of those suit types. I don’t like him. He’s not a _nice_ person. If you ask me, he’s up to something. Don’t trust him.”

  
  


Such a description was the one that preceded one man, and Dom knew instantly which of his disreputable acquaintances it was. “Eames,” he murmured. “He’s a collea- an old friend. Don’t worry about him. He’s a real gentleman.” He was nothing of the sort, but he could keep a charming front up long enough to fool you, long enough to fool you into giving him your banking details, that is, but that was another story for another day. Of course his mother-in-law was the one woman not charmed by Mr. Eames. The Eames effect, as it was christened, worked on both men and women, and was superficially similar to that grotesque British foodstuff called marmite - you either loved him or you hated him.

  
  


Judging from the way James was hugging the guy’s leg, and Philippa was staring at him in awe, they were in the former camp. Eames was still trying to walk normally, a mildly amused look of mock irritation on his face. “Ah, Mr. Cobb. Been a while, my friend. Do you happen to know how I might detach this rascal from my leg?” James giggled.

  
  


“You talk funny.”

  
  


“Are you from England?” Philippa asked. “Like Grandpa Miles?”

  
  


Eames shrugged lazily “I’m from a number of places. England, yes, is one of them.” That was more than Dom had got out of him, more truth anyway. Compulsive lying, pseudologica fantastica, that when Eames was asked a question something compelled him to spin some vast yarn out of something little more than straw. “Please, Dom. Help me.”

  
  


“Children, come along now,” their grandmother interrupted sharply, easing James off to go outside and play. Philippa was harder to move.

  
  


“Is Uncle Arthur coming over?” she sounded almost hopeful “Uncle Arthur’s nice.”

  
  


Keenly aware of his mother-in-law listening in - she knew Arthur from the before-days, before Mal died. Actually, she’d got on reasonably well with him, but he was still tainted, guilty by association. Involved in the dream nonsense, therefore, a bad influence, therefore, _bad_ _._

  
  


_ Mal - adj, French.  _

  
  


“It looks like he might be, sweetie. He’ll be arriving with Grandpa this evening.” As soon as his daughter was out of earshot, and he was confident his mother-in-law was not eavesdropping, he turned to his colleague “Eames,”

  
  


“Yes darling?” the forger replied, absently, inspecting a piece of modern artwork with keen interest. “Do you mind explaining what’s going on? Poor Arthur was ever so vague on the phone. Mentioned something about our mysterious mystery man of mystery, but of course, as we all know, forgive me for being blunt, but your mind’s been messed with and scrambled beyond repair, you’re utterly off your proverbial, and you _don’t dream._ So either the vestiges of sanity return, or there’s some supernatural entity messing about inside people’s heads which really would be a turn up for the books and to be honest, I think Arthur might spontaneously combust. So. Juicy details, go on, I want to know.”

  
  


“Later. Listen, if you don’t mind, would you go down to the airport to pick Arthur, Miles and Ariadne up.”

  
  


“Ariadne,” Eames smiled. “She’s in, then. One of us. Good thing too, she seemed a bright girl. When’s the plane arriving?”

  
  


“Couple of hours. You could, uh, make some signs with the kids, I don’t know. I’m sure Arthur will appreciate your efforts.”

  
  


Eames nodded. “Fair enough, but first - tell me: what in God’s name have you dragged us into? Please. All Arthur told me was you’d seen the pale figure in a dream and so decided we had to go on some mad wild goose chase. Which true, he knew full well I couldn’t resist _that_ but come on, I want to know what prompted this. If it had been an ordinary dream, even you could have ignored that, even if _he_ did turn up, that could be put down to your mind building from what it knows-”

  
  


“That’s the point, Eames. It wasn’t my mind doing the building. Something _was_ controlling the surroundings. The dream was too strong, it wasn’t anything I could have thought of, I couldn’t override it even though I knew I was dreaming. Now, we don’t know yet if there is some supernatural entity messing about inside people’s heads, as you put it, but someone needs to investigate. Find out what it is controlling the dreams. It’s important. Because what if, just what if, what if it’s _dangerous_?”

  
  


The forger smiled grimly. “Well. This will be fun, won’t it?”

  
  


-

  
  


‘Welcome’ the elaborate sign at the airport read, accompanied by glitter, feathers, bits of paper stuck all awry at eccentric angles, with detailed sketches of Professor Miles - albeit donning a beret and outrageous moustache - and Ariadne, who despite having been scribbled over by the mad hand of a young child, James, most probably, still looked astonishingly beautiful. Arthur, meanwhile, was relegated to a stickman at the bottom, tacked on as an intentional afterthought. The bearer of the sign was smiling proudly as he assisted a well-rested Ariadne with her luggage.

  
  


“Hello, Mr. Eames,” murmured a sleep-deprived Arthur. He hadn’t been able to catch a wink the entire flight, with Miles reading over his notes the entire time, cross-referencing and flicking through various volumes, Arthur on the other side of the aisle becoming increasingly nervous whenever the professor examined one page for more than a minute or so. Not only was he concerned for his friend, but a general unease had set in, and he was second-guessing himself, worrying needlessly about trivial issues. In the end he had watched an inane action movie to take his mind off things. But after all this time, he found there was no better distraction than Eames and his nonsense. “Like  the artwork.”

  
  


“Do you?” Eames beamed. “I was especially delighted with you, Arthur, Young Philippa has quite the makings of a great artist. You see - stick figure, stick-in-the-mud? I think the similarities are striking,” the forger, and apparent signmaker, sighed. “My genius, as ever, remains wasted on you. Good evening Ariadne. Professor Miles. A delight to see the both of you.”

  
  


“Pleasure as always, Mr. Eames,” the Professor extended a hand and Eames shook it eagerly.

  
  


“So anyway, Miles, I hear you’re quite the expert on the wild phenomenon we’re currently stalking any pertinent details Dom is choosing to keep hidden from us?” Direct as ever. Arthur could see Ariadne smiling from the corner of his eye, as they headed for the car and it occurred to Arthur that DEAR GOD HE WAS NOT LETTING EAMES DRIVE and pushed into the driver’s seat before Eames could even object. “Arthur, dear, it’s almost as if you don’t trust me behind the wheel. Now why on Earth might that be?”

  
  


“Berlin, ‘99 ring any bells?”

  
  


Eames shrugged and opted to ride shotgun rather than argue the point. “None that I’m thinking of. Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely and nonverbally interrupted, Dom is hiding things from us and I’d appreciate knowing what because frankly, despite being a complete success, inception was also a total disaster. Someone had to say it.”

  
  


Ariadne nodded and offered her first contribution. “His projection of Mal got in the way,” Professor Miles stiffened. “But we dealt with her in Limbo. He let her go. There shouldn’t be any...any express trains, or you know, _her._ ”

  
  


That was a blessing - Arthur did not much care for being shot in the leg by his best friend and colleague’s subconscious projection of his dead wife. Or having her send members of the group into Limbo  because part of Dom _wanted_ to be there, wanted an excuse to go back and stay with her in the dream forever. Problem solved. So long as Dom didn’t want them to go into Limbo, they’d be fine. There would be nothing to find, but otherwise they’d be fine.

  
  


“He wants us to go down into Limbo. That’s where he saw the Sandman first, that’s where he wants to go looking for him.” Professor Miles gestured for Arthur to start the car and the younger man complied, after making sure everyone, Eames included, had their seatbelts on. “You see, Dom had a theory; or, rather, Mal had it first. Largely the consensus is that Limbo is empty until someone enters that space, at which point it fills up with their thoughts, their dreams define the space. If someone sharing the dream has been to Limbo before, Limbo becomes whatever they left behind. An ocean, washing you up onto the shore of your own mind. That’s what the majority of extractors think, anyway. But Mal thought differently. She always did,” he lowered his gaze. “She thought of using totems, she revolutionised the way we do things. You wouldn’t know this, Ariadne, but the best part of the extractor’s trade owes itself to my daughter. Under Mal it became safer - though there were still risks, but even she couldn’t master Limbo. Limbo was too much. And you know what happened after that.”

  
  


Ariadne nodded. “So what was her theory?” she asked, pushing for an answer. “About Limbo?”

  
  


“Mal believed Limbo was more than just raw dreamspace, that it was the beginning of something bigger, the tip of a colossal iceberg below the waters of reality. She believed everything must have an architect, some sort of designer. That Limbo was too powerful to be a product of our minds.”

“Collective human unconsciousness,” Arthur replied uncertainly.

  
  


“Perhaps. What know about Limbo is that my daughter became convinced it was her reality. Our world felt less real.”

  
  


“The human mind’s ability to trick itself-” Arthur began, but the Professor cut him off.

  
  


“Is infinite, I know that!” the old man snapped “I’ve spent enough time with my son-in-law to witness that firsthand. But Mal wouldn’t have fallen for the lure of Limbo if it were ‘just a dream’. She was stronger than that. Something happened down there. Limbo became her reality, a dream so rich she couldn’t break free. I lost my daughter.”

  
  


“Do you think she was right?” Ariadne queried, her voice uncertain. “Do you think Limbo is someone else’s dream.”

  
  


Professor Miles shook his head. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what to think. But I will also say this - I am not losing my son-in-law as well. If he’s going into Limbo, which he will with or without your help, I want you to be there.”

  
  


Even Eames was silent, the gravity of the situation drawing him to a hush, if only for a moment. Then, as ever, he felt the need to open his mouth and Arthur rolled his eyes preemptively. “Well. So we’re going looking for a supernatural being deep within Limbo where we could all misplace our minds and I somehow doubt Limbo has a lost-and-found. Dom could have told us this before. Don’t get me wrong, I’m intrigued by the Sandman, whoever, whatever he is, but Limbo? Consider me out. Arthur, can you pull over, I feel the need to vomit up my internal organs at my own gullibility.”

  
  


Arthur did not pull over, but continued driving. “Just hear him out, okay? If you don’t like it after that, you can walk.”

  
  


“I don’t like it right here and now. Why did I agree to come?”

  
  


“Because the so-called ‘Sandman’ is involved,” Arthur muttered. “And you’re a sucker for big, theatrical conspiracies.”

  
  


“Thank you for reminding me, I’d almost forgotten.”

  
  


“Don’t mention it,” Arthur replied through gritted teeth, and continued driving for half an hour more until they arrived at the residence of Dominic Cobb. Pulling into the drive, he got out, opening Ariadne’s door for her and offering her help with her suitcase, which she declined. James, Philippa, and Cobb’s terrifying mother-in-law greeted them immediately. Heading inside, his feeling of anxiety growing, Arthur went looking for his oldest and closest friend, all the while afraid of what he might find.

  
  


-

  
  


_Within the Dreaming there are Rules, and Capital Letters you can almost taste. Within the Dreaming there are layers and levels that people, extractors, have learnt to tap into and construct. This art began when the walls were fragile, when Morpheus the Lord of Dreams was in his glass prison. After his return, he was too busy to give the extractors any of his concern, to the agitation of Lucien who was, as ever, worried about his Lord._

  
  


_Extractors were insignificant, in the scheme of things, their half-made dreams ephemeral shadows compared to the real thing. It amused the Lord of Dreams to watch them try, inasmuch as anything amused him. He watched them from afar, observing their efforts, sometimes stepping in if he found their endeavours particularly feeble, the dreams poorly-designed._

  
  


_Lord Morpheus was gone now. His replacement - who once was called Daniel, but no longer belongs to that name - also took it upon himself to watch the intruders to his world, with considerably more gentleness and respect than his predecessor. Within Limbo, he watched Dom and Mal Cobb construct their own world, and after they departed, he maintained it for them, rather than erasing the place entirely. By maintained, he meant ignored and left to decay, but he never took it upon himself to destroy it. It was not, after all, his dream._

  
  


_Now in among those collapsing buildings, a raven flies. If you got close enough, you would hear him complaining incessantly. Who his seemingly aimless conversation is directed at, you wouldn’t know, unless you got close enough to hear him say the word, the_ _title_ ‘ _boss’._

  
  


_An absent friend - boss - friend. A missing leader. For sure, though Matthew respects the new incarnation of Dream, obeys him, cares about him, is his loyal servant, part of him will always belong to the past. And so he complains, reels of complaint after complaint, in the hope that somewhere, Lord Morpheus, his_ _ friend _ _, is listening._

  
  


_In the castle deep within the heart of the Dreaming, the pale figure on the throne bows his head, as if acknowledging his raven’s complaints. He gets to work on making new landscapes, restructuring the fabric of the Dreaming itself. It is, after all, his responsibility, especially with guests on the way. He would like the Dreaming to be welcoming for them._

  
  


_Matthew the raven lands on the side of a building and mutters “Anyway, that’s what I think. I dunno what you’d say. I mean, I like the kid, don’t get me wrong. He’s good at what he does. Truth is, I don’t think you’d say anything, you know, just stare off into space like you always did. I know, I’ve got the kid, he’s great but...he isn’t even halfway as downright_ _ infuriating  _ _as you could be. Maybe that’s the worst part, you know - the fact he’s happy and you weren’t.” the raven shrugs “Never mind me.”_

  
  


_He flies onwards, further into the abandoned city. He waits._

  
_He waits._   


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan is discussed, and evidence for the existence of 'the Sandman' laid out in full. The group prepare for the mission, and think on collective dreams. Meanwhile, in the Dreaming, Lucien is a little concerned about how events are coming to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be able to start updating on an actual schedule at some point, since I've nearly finished my other crossover fic, and this will soon be taking priority. Thanks to raven_aorla for supporting and commenting on this, it means a lot. There's some more references to JC here, and by that, I don't mean Jesus Christ. And here goes.

**Chapter 3**

  
  


“That’s your plan? Well, at least it serves to prove something.” Eames snorted. “You’re at least twice as inherently disturbed in the psychological sense as any of us predicted. Well done.”

  
  


“Thank you for your overwhelming confidence, Eames,” Dom muttered. He was tired. Since the Incident, he’d barely slept. Was too afraid to let himself. He’d always found himself waking up after being overwhelmed by exhaustion, not even noticing he’d fallen asleep. Not even _dreaming._ So in one sense, everything was back to normal. In another, it had changed completely.

  
  


At least now his mother-in-law was off his back, with the return of her husband she was less concerned about these unconventional visitors, and had taken an instant liking to Ariadne. The children had, until five or ten minutes ago, been wide awake and delighted, shrieking ‘Uncle Arthur, Uncle Arthur’ chasing him around and forcing him to act as ‘donkey’, much to the amusement of Mr. Eames, who had watched the whole thing and sipped his champagne with a smirk. Ariadne had quietly asked Dom how he was doing, and he’d answered half-truthfully - things were better. He still missed Mal, he still sometimes felt the urge to go back into his memories, but couldn’t because he knew where that road led and he knew the real world was waiting for him here. There’d been a lot of catching up to do, and of course Arthur, as soon as he could tear himself away from James and Philippa, was worried, chronic worrier that he was, and they had managed to avoid mentioning the catalyst to the reunion for just under three hours. No longer.

  
  


He’d detailed his plan to the team, who, aside from Eames, said nothing, but their faces betrayed their agreement with the Englishman. “Does anyone have any better ideas?”

  
  


“What, other than heavy sedation, one layer of dreaming that consists of nothing more than a concrete room with a gun we all shoot ourselves with and go into Limbo to build new civilisations and die of old age?” Eames shook his head “No old chap, I believe that just about takes the cake. And the rest of the assorted confectionary.”

  
  


“I agree with Eames,” Arthur said, and Eames’ expression was one of horror.

  
  


“Arthur agrees with me? IT’S THE END TIMES. RUN, BEFORE YOU ALL GET RAPTURED!” he laughed darkly “I admit, I’m intrigued by the premise of this mission but honestly, I’d much rather keep my sanity intact.”

  
  


“What sanity?” muttered Arthur, only to be met with an elbow to the stomach. Professor Miles stood up at that point and the bickering duo came to a hush.

  
  


“Gentlemen. And lady,” he tipped his head to Ariadne. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t approve of this any more than you do, but I am also keenly aware of its necessity. When we first started going into dreams, the presence of the pale figure, the Sandman - and yes, I’m aware, Arthur, you don’t like that name - was a huge threat to international security. Someone else inside the dreams? In our subconscious? Where all manner of secrets might be found? I was one of the ones tasked with finding out who or what this thing was.”

  
  


“You said it yourself,” Arthur interrupted “In _our_ subconscious. Humanity as a whole. It’s just some evolutionary delusion-”

  
  


“That was what I thought,” Miles smiled grimly “Who do you think came up with that theory?” Arthur apologised, looking down at the floor, and fell silent. “Back then, if there was something slightly abnormal, something potentially supernatural, everyone used to consult Mr Constantine, John. On the offhand that he might know something, I asked him about the Sandman once.”

  
  


“Wait, you knew John Constantine?” Eames sounded impressed. “Small world.”

  
  


“Indeed it is, Mr. Eames, indeed it is. I even heard his band play once, though I wish to god I hadn’t because, pardon my French, they were bloody awful. This was after that. After the Newcastle incident, when most people wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.”

  
  


“We got hired to extract information from him once,” Dom added, and saw his father-in-law’s face go white with terror “Turned it down soon as we realised who he- _what_ he could do. Heard a couple of Germans tried not long after and they woke up naked in Russia with no memory of how they got there. Those who woke up at all.”

  
  


Over his shoulder, Dom could see Arthur filling Ariadne in on the details. She thanked him for his translatory services, cutting through all the extractor bullshit, and decided to get to the point. “So this Constan- _tine_?” Her pronunciation was uncertain, the British version unfamiliar, rhyming with ‘fine’ rather than ‘mean’, with ‘spine’ instead as ‘Queen’. “He knows something about the Sandman then?”

  
  


“Knew. He’s dead.” Miles said bluntly. “Allegedly. It’s not exactly the first time he’s done this, ‘died’, that is. Happens every other week, or thereabouts. Anyway, he was the one I went to for information on the Sandman. Sort of feller who had a finger in every pie, knew something about virtually every belief system, went to hell and back,” the professor laughed, as if at a joke no-one else was in on. “And by that, I’m not speaking figuratively.”

  
  


At this, Arthur rolled his eyes, his cynicism regarding the supernatural a tad hypocritical, given their line of work, but a furtive glare from Dom managed to stop him saying anything.

  
  


“And?” He asked his in-law. nervously. “What did he tell you?”

  
  


“He’d met him, hadn’t he!” the old man beamed “He’d only bloody met him!”

  
  


-

  
  


Sat around the table in the kitchen, everyone wearing suits, except Ariadne in her t-shirt and jeans, it was somewhat like a board meeting. If only Saito had been there and he could have been CEO. And he’d certainly be up for a road trip back to Limbo, wouldn’t he now? Somewhere far away, actually only a few feet, Arthur was complaining. Good old Arthur, always reliable to kill the mood. Telling mystery stories? Well, good luck because here comes Arthur, voice of logic and reason as always.

  
  


“John Constantine is _hardly_ a reliable source. He spent large portions of his life in and out of mental institutes, he was mentally unstable and besides, he made his living as a notorious down-and-out con man. He was probably lying!”

  
  


“Indeed, I agree,” conceded the Professor. “But I verified his information. Hackney driver Francis ‘Chas’ Chandler backed up the story, there was a strange, silent, tall pale man dressed all in black with dark hair.”

  
  


“It was the eighties! There were lots of strange silent tall pale guys matching that description!”

  
  


“The ex-girlfriend died. Post-mortem revealed nothing. She was just dead, and apparently had been for some _years_. Except, and this is interesting, her brain was affected exactly like the most severe cases of over-dreaming. The dreamers who get lost inside the dreams and never wake up. Whatever actually happened, she suffered a fate similar to the sleepers, those who are kept alive only by constant dreams.”

“She was junkie! Look at the report,” here Arthur waved an official police document, and Eames wondered half-heartedly where Miles had procured _that_ particular contraband “‘Covered in sores and scabs, open wounds-”

  
  


“None of which were the cause of death! They were determined to have happened post-mortem, after she actually died!” snapped Miles. They would probably argue until kingdom come, to-ing and fro-ing with their ‘but if you consider the myth of the hundred-year drinks’, ‘that’s a myth!’ ‘so is your mum’ (though admittedly, Eames was rather fabricating that part. Professor Miles’ real response would no doubt be more cutting), and though it was nice to watch Arthur get irate, there was only so much bickering Eames was willing to put up with.

  
  


“Excuse me, ladies, if we could direct ourselves back to the matter at hand…” the two fell silent, and Eames tipped his head “Much appreciated, thank you.”

  
  


Ariadne, bright girl that she was, used this as an opportunity to cut into her now former lecturer’s time “What are all these files you brought?” she indicated the folders strewn out across the table.

  
  


_Please, please, please say ‘I’m glad you asked’. It would be an honest waste if you didn’t say it. Like passing up the chance to say ‘Take me to your leader’, or ‘Mr. Bond, I’ve been expecting you’ or ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you’. Please. Four words, four or five syllables depending. This is important._

  
  


“Well,” _Say it. SAY IT_ Everything inside Eames was screaming “I’m glad you asked.” _YESSSSS. One_ _cliché  line down, everybody take a drink and get ready for Dom to next open his mouth_ “These are a catalogue of all the references to the Sandman we’ve found in myth.” He started to open them, naming them in turn. “An alternate version of the _History_ of Orpheus, where rather than the usual suspects, Oeagrus and Apollo, the father is someone called Oneiros. Who is a god of dreams, largely left out of conventional mythology. In this version, rather than Hades and Persephone holding Eurydice, it is Orpheus’ aunt, whose name translates to Death. Seven siblings: Dream, Death, Destiny, Destruction, Desire, Despair and Delirium, who in some translations is known as Delight. It stands out because it is an unusual myth, one that has never taken off in the minds of the people. It reads very differently to the usual Hellenic tales,

  
  


“And Nada and the traveller, Lord Kai’ckul,” Miles opened another folder and continued “This tale was only discovered recently, and it caught my attention for one reason. It was limited only to one tribe, one set of people. Much like the other. Tenuous, I know. It tells of a queen who fell in love with a wandering stranger, only to discover he was Lord of Dreams and take her own life after her kingdom turned to dust in her absence. Traditionally, it was only told as a manhood ritual, passed from father to son, but with the impending extinction of the group, their last man bestowed it upon an outsider, an anthropology professor who noted similarities between the depiction of Dream in the two stories. He referred the story to us, the extractors researching the Sandman.”

  
  


“And then an official report made by the Justice League of America, released after the latest inquiry, when the government compelled them to publish all their secret files from ten, twenty years ago - are you going to discredit them now, hm?” Arthur looked tempted to argue, but thought better of it, which Eames decided was an absolute shame “Miracle Man and Martian Manhunter.” _Ah, the alliteration brigade_ “They report that the figure, who they cannot agree on the appearance of- the former described, surprise surprise, a pale man, with dark hair, dark clothes, the pre-95 description. As for our Martian friend, well, would you be surprised to hear that, at exactly the same time as his companion was seeing _our_ suspect, J’onn J’onzz described a ‘vast flaming skull, which he identified as a god of his people, Lord L’Zoril, I invite you to guess what manner of deity he was.”

  
  


“Dreams,”murmured Cobb, distractedly. “He’s a god of dreams.”

  
  


“My, the Martians are fond of apostrophes, aren’t they?” Eames chipped in, trying to affect a brave face. Truth be told, this case unnerved him. He had been curious to start with, revelling in the mystery, in the _mythology_ but now an actual, credit-worthy source had stepped forwards and it looked like they were indeed up against a supernatural force of unimaginable power, and their plan was such obvious bollocks, he would be the first to admit having some second thoughts. Still. He couldn’t exactly pass up an opportunity to meet an actual god, could he now? He would question him with agnostic relentlessness.

  
  


The rest of the files were opened, one holding information about a massacre in a diner, blamed upon an escaped Arkham patient, Doctor Destiny, another revealing testimonies by captured serial killers, about a convention they’d held and events that had occurred while there (it seemed as though a tall, pale man with dark hair, wearing yes you’ve guessed it, dark clothes, _disintegrated_ a man with teeth for eyes, known professionally as the Corinthian, who in turn was a legend of the serial killer community. Some of the files turned up strange, eccentric stories about Shakespeare, some featured myths from around the globe, permeating throughout _all_ cultures, _all_ societies. Eyewitness claims. Unverified accusations. Some were reports of unusual phenomena: ‘the night we all dreamt of a funeral’ was a fictionalised account of an actual event everyone the world over, during which each person remembered, vaguely, sharing one collective dream. Details pertaining to this event were vague, but now he heard it, Eames remembered the dream himself. They all did, even Ariadne. Theories were wild, some, those Arthur would approve of, talked some nonsense about collective human unconsciousness. Others blamed psychoterrorism, large-scale extraction, or, when in doubt, accuse the superpowers, the capes, be they villainous or heroic in nature.

  
  


But the one that stuck out, the one that seemed isolated in its strangeness, posted on the blog of some writer type, was the hypothesis that they were attending the wake of the Lord of Dreams. That the change in colour-scheme for the pale figure was actually reflecting some sort of change in identity, someone new assuming the mantle of Dream. It was insane, bloody mental, but when even Superman reluctantly admitted he’d shared that dream, showing it was definitively _not_ limited to humans, you realised something was up. Even Arthur couldn’t deny that.

  
  


“So,” Eames smiled broadly, assuaging his own deep internal fears “When do we start?”

  
  


-

  
  


_If you were born before 1994, you too would have had that dream. Maybe you don’t remember it. Worse, maybe you do. The grey shroud, the strange figures of concepts, Death, Delirium, Desire, the talking raven? Out of the corner of your eye, maybe you saw Batman,_ _hey, Batman, is that you?_ _Bruce Wayne turns his head, face hidden under cowl, and he shoots you a half-dreamt glare. Maybe you saw members of your family you’d stopped speaking to, relatives you’d wished dead more times than you could remember._

  
  


_The strangeness of the wake feels normal at the time. Only later, when you wake up, you think, hey, wasn’t I just at a funeral with Batman? Crazy dreams, huh? Crazy. Maybe your friends had a similar dream, only they knocked into the President in the crowd instead, AWKWARD, LIKE, or they stood on Maggie Thatcher’s toe, accidentally flirted with some rock idol. But the fact of the matter remains, if you were born before or during the year of 1995, you will have dreamt that same dream, as an infant, as a child, as an adolescent, or an adult, or an old, old antique relic. You will never dream of it again. Like all the myths, it will pass into obscurity, an isolated incident unworthy of mention, but just bizarre enough to linger in the minds of some, as an event that happened. Everyone of note was in attendance._

  
  


_Except one. There was one being who simply could not attend, a pale, young and ancient man, looking out from the shadows under a haze of white hair. Dream watched the Wake come to pass, and moved on._

  
  


_Some years later, an extractor named Dominic Cobb and his wife Mal became trapped on the outskirts of the Dreaming for some time. And it was Dream who watched them, allowed them world enough and time, to build themselves their own kingdom. He observed from a distance, leaving them to their devices, but he was not far enough. Dom Cobb saw him. Dom Cobb remembered. So that when Dom Cobb dreamed of the figure in white again, it was certain that the pull of Limbo would set in once more, and a team of extractors would go under. Good._

  
  


_In the library at the centre of the Dreaming, Lucien was worried. It was a perpetual state, though he disguised it well. Allowing extractors into the very heart of the Dreaming was undoubtedly a foolish move. Why was his Lord letting it happen? Who could tell? For despite all the changes that had come to pass in the Dreaming of late, the Lord of Dreams remained as inscrutable as ever, sometimes. Everything was new. Lucien really had nothing to reference the new incarnation’s behaviour to. In many ways he was exactly the same as Lord Morpheus, but in yet others, he was unaccountably different. And Lucien could accept that, but it didn’t stop him being nervous._

  
  


_Ultimately, nothing short of a miracle could stop that._

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group goes into Limbo, leaving Arthur on the first level of the Dreaming, seemingly out of the action. Meanwhile, they met an unusual (and talkative) corvid, who begins to escort them on towards the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a note about the fic, but my computer wants to correct corvid to corridor. Bizarre. Anyway. Ignore that. Just go with it.

Chapter 4

  
  


Much to her chagrin, Dom’s mother-in-law had been allocated a role in the mission: she was to monitor the systems while they were sleeping and prepare and initiate the kick at the right time, after by pressing the ‘wake’ button. She had complained long and hard about this, until her husband explained the situation to her in French and she reluctantly accepted its necessity. Thankfully, she had some prior experience with the systems, and so knew exactly how to operate them, and anyway, they were hilariously simple to explain even if she hadn’t known how to work them.

  
  


The first, and only constructed level, was a subject of intense debate. Between Arthur, who didn’t believe they’d find anything; and Eames who hated the idea of being caught in Limbo, but then again also didn’t want to miss out on anything they might find down there; they were bickering loudly about who would be the one staying behind, who would administer the defibrillator to resurrect them out of Limbo. Miles was definitely coming, being the one who knew most about what they were up against, followed by Dom. And then Ariadne, who perhaps it was safest to leave on level one, but she was worried and insisted she needed to come too, being the only other one in the party with first-hand experience of Limbo. So grudgingly, Dom had to accept her presence, which made the mission all the more difficult.

  
  


“Eames, can you just make up your mind?” Arthur’s tone was despairing “Are you going on the mission or are you leaving? Choose.”

  
  


“I’m sorry, is that an ultimatum?” Eames chucked “Look at that, Dom, Arthur’s giving me ultimatums. Will we be getting a divorce, I wonder? Who will get custody of the entirely fictional children?”

  
  


“Me,” Arthur said bluntly “You are by no means responsible enough to be a parent. Even of imaginary kids. And since when were we married? We’re not even a couple!”

  
  


“Really? Should we rectify that?” Eames grinned wickedly. 

  
  


Ariadne laughed “Smooth.”

  
  


“Arthur, it’s Eames, ignore him. Eames-” Dom shot the forger a despairing look. “Please stop. This is serious.”

  
  


“ God, you’ve been around Arthur too long, you’re going boring. Fine. I’ll come down into Limbo. If nothing else, at least it’ll be a laugh, even if we do come out as the intellectual equivalent of jelly babies,” Blank stares, except of course from the Professor who turned away and pretended to set up the equipment. “You know, little chewy child shaped sweets? You don’t have those? Of course not. America. Land of the brave and home of the free  _ indeed _ .”

  
  


“Seventeen,” coughed Arthur subtly, to looks of confusion “Analogies for Limbo-related insanity that you’ve used in the past minute.”

  
  


“Why Arthur, I didn’t know you were keeping count! I’d have tried harder if I’d known. Some of those last ones were a tad half-arsed, if I’m being honest.”

  
  


While everyone prepared for the dream, getting comfortable on chairs, cocktail of sedatives at the ready along with the rest of the equipment (provided to Arthur by Yusuf, in bulk, just after the inception gig), Ariadne took Dom aside and whispered “Do you really think we’ll find anything?” He said nothing. “Cobb, seriously! Is this some crazy fool’s errand we’re going on for you? Because sure, there’s evidence, and yes it’s compelling, but is this worth going back to Limbo for? I know this is important to you, but I thought you were, you know.  _ Letting go _ _.  _ Returning to Limbo could be disastrous, things might resurface.”

  
  


“They won’t,” he insisted, hoping to god he was right.

  
  


“Cobb, I’m concerned. About you. You do not leave my sight when we’re down there, understood?”

  
  


He smiled, despite himself, because Ariadne was a force of nature as ever, living up to her mythological name. “Understood,” he replied, this time hoping it was a promise he could keep. You never knew when you were down there.

  
  


You never knew where Limbo’s unwritten, undecided roads would lead you.

  
  


-

  
  


When they went under, Ariadne found herself jolted awake in a small, compact concrete room, as she’d seen on the plan, surrounded by the others. Cobb himself stood over her, offering her a hand up. She thanked him, and got to her feet, surveying her surroundings. There was no door. No way in, no way out. Outside there was a maze, which she’d had a hand in designing, which also had no entrances, and several additional features Eames had placed which he had fervently denied were booby traps, more ‘areas of increased probability of death’ ( “ _ Booby traps.” Arthur rolled his eyes “They’re booby traps.”) _ . There were stairs leading up to the surface, solid ground, but they were Arthur’s favourite kind, the impossible stairs. The surface was an isolated wasteland, and the entrance to the room was hidden. Apparently exterior locations were necessary for the scope of the dream, otherwise the mind filled in the gaps by itself and the mind could be unpredictable, and this was where the projections of Professor Miles’ subconscious were - this was his dream -  milling around the middle-of-nowhere, with no way to enter the hidden room. 

  
  


In the middle of the concrete floor, there was a gun, loaded. Beside it was a first aid kit, bandages, defib, adrenal syringes. This level’s kick. All of which was useless unless they killed themselves in Limbo first, and Arthur had to begin resuscitation at exactly the right time, so he was bringing each person out of it. He had only half an hour, Mrs Miles had even less at one and a half minutes, placing the headphones on Arthur’s ears alone at the one minute mark. However, down in Limbo, this translated to a maximum 166 days and 16 hours, just over 5 months, though it would probably even out at a few weeks less, maybe even a month. A long time, regardless. The problem was giving Arthur enough time to resuscitate them all. Ariadne had assumed that due to a lack of other levels, Limbo’s time passage would be shorter, but apparently not, it didn’t even cut any time from the calculation. Limbo’s time was funny. It behaved as if there were more levels even when there weren’t. 5 months. 166 days, 16 hours down in Limbo. Scientifically, only three dream levels were possible to construct, each adding more time on. Those levels were left unbuilt here, but Limbo was still four levels down, and would always act that way.

  
  


The time disparity would be their biggest obstacle. The distance between Arthur and themselves. A minute on his end was almost six days for them. If they needed to get out of Limbo before he began playing music to signal he was about to begin resuscitation on them, they could just kill themselves. 

  
  


Cobb picked up the gun and, with terrifying precision, shot Eames, Miles and Ariadne in the chest in quick succession. A sudden rush of pain. Then cold. Somewhere, she heard another gunshot, Cobb joining them en route to Limbo, but-

  
  


Saltwater filled her mouth. Spluttering, she pulled herself up onto her forearms, shakily assisting Professor Miles. 

  
  


“You could have told me about the sea!” Eames, covered head to toe in sand, hair dishevelled and sticking out in all directions stiff with salt, brushed himself down and tried to regain his admittedly already lacking dignity.

  
  


“We did,” Cobb muttered. “And you were flicking paper pellets at Arthur at the time. ADHD, much?”

  
  


_ That would really explain a lot  _ thought Ariadne. 

  
  


Limbo was even more desolate than the last time she’d been here. It had decayed to the point of no return. Most of the collapsing skyscrapers she had seen last time had subsided almost entirely into the inexorable blue. As they walked, drying themselves off by consciously manipulating the dreamworld - without projections, it was theoretically safe to modify their surroundings as much as they liked, though safety was debatable - they headed through the the walk of memories. Where Cobb’s reality filtered in.

  
  


“My,” Eames surveyed their surroundings and made a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth. “You have been a busy boy, haven’t you?”

  
  


“ I remember that house-” Professor Miles cut off, staring at the small building, the one Mal had grown up in. Of course he did. “Did you build all this with  _ her _ , Dom?”

  
  


Cobb nodded wordlessly. Ariadne was surprised too. Because the memories were intact. Preserved. The cityscape further out, the rest of Mal and Cobb’s world had fallen into ruin, but someone, or something, had protected the memories. A shiver ran down her spine.

  
  


“Where do we start?” she asked him “Where did you see the Sandman when you were first here?”

  
  


Before Cobb could open his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by an impossible noise. The sound of wings. And the raucous caw of a raven, which settled down in front of them on a gatepost. It preened itself a little, then cocked its head and looked at them. The dreamers exchanged baffled looks. Life, in Limbo? Not just life, but animal life. A bird. A  _ raven _ .

  
  


“Impossible…” Ariadne murmured, staring at the creature in wonder

  
  


“ I remember the raven. From last time,” admitted Cobb “Yes. There was definitely a raven, sat on  _ his  _ shoulder, watching us from a distance.”

  
  


“Of course!” Professor Miles sounded elated “In some of the accounts, the figure of the Dream-Lord is accompanied by ravens.”

  
  


“Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore’,” quoted Eames.

  
  


The raven fixed its beady eyes on Eames and ruffled its feathers in an almost indignant fashion. And then, with no warning whatsoever, it opened its beak and spoke. “Quoth the raven, ‘shut your face’, that’s more like it mister.” If ravens could grin, this one would be, as it laughing a rough sort of cackling noise, in response to the dreamers’ dumbstruck expressions. “I’m Matthew. The Lord of Dreams - yep, that one, Dream, you know, let me make this clear for those at the back,  _ the Sandman  _ stupid name though that is, the kid- that is, I mean,” The raven seemed ill-at-ease for a moment, rephrasing himself “The  _ Lord of this place  _ sent me to collect you and escort you back to his palace. And please, don’t make any more Poe jokes. Trust me, I’ve heard ‘em all. Mostly from Merv. Any questions?”

  
  


The bird cocked its - no,  _ his, he was called Matthew -  _ head _.  _ What a mundane name for a raven. Ariadne would have expected something dramatic like Nyx or Obsidian, or even something relatively ordinary like Lucien. But Matthew?  What kind of name was that for a raven?

  
  


It was his name. And they just had to go with it. Suck it up. Roll with the weirdness. At least they had a tour guide now, even if he was of the avian variety, with a disappointing name. It really was a shame Arthur was missing out on this. 

  
  


He was  _ never  _ going to believe what had happened.

  
  


-

  
  


_ Fortunately for Ariadne, Arthur’s bubble of rationality is about to be, quite violently, burst. Only a few seconds, maybe even less, have passed since the murder-suicide, and Arthur is thinking of things to keep his mind off the corpses scattered around. He decides to move them into one section of the room, and face the other way, pretending they are not present. No sooner than he has stood up, he hears a noise immediately behind him. _

  
  


_ Nothing is there. Nothing  _ _ can  _ _ be there. Certainly not the palest man he’s ever seen, porcelain skin, a mass of white hair, and dark, infinite eyes, in which the stars might be beheld. No such person exists. He is only an inherent human delusion. That is what Arthur tells himself. _

  
  


“ _How did you get in here? This room is impenetrable!” Arthur insists._

  
  


_ The pale man, Arthur refuses to think of him as the Sandman, waves a hand and the world comes undone, falling apart a piece at a time, steadily unravelling, replaced instead by a vast palatial hall.  _

  
  


“ _The Dreaming is an extension of myself,” the pale man says, as if reciting something that is common knowledge “Or perhaps it is the other way around. It depends on your perspective.”_

  
  


“ _What have you done to my friends?” Arthur asks, uncertainly. The man smiles, almost amused. It is disconcerting. “Tell me what you did to them!”_

  
  


“ _Nothing,” the man sounds offended. “I sent Matthew, my raven, out to bring them here. They should arrive shortly. In the meantime, might I recommend visiting the library? You are rather the type to enjoy such things, are you not, Arthur?”_

  
  


“ _Who are you?” Arthur asks, staring at the pale man, afraid to meet his terrible, piercing eyes._

  
  


_ The man smiles, and he looks so very young in that moment. “I,” he says, softly, in a gentle, amiable voice. “Am Dream. It’s a pleasure.” _

  
  


_ Arthur thinks he might take a look at that library after all. If only to get away from the personification/human delusionhumandelusionHUMANDELUSION standing before him. That sounds like a very good idea. _

  
  


_ A very good idea indeed. _

  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why the end note from chapter one keeps reappearing here, or if it's doing that anywhere else, but I HAVE NOTICED IT. I blame the aliens.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew and Eames hit it off, the group cross the desert, and encounter someone they ought to have anticipated, in the past and yet, right now. Because time doesn't work, in that desert. You see dreamers from the past. Time is weird like that.

**Chapter 5**

  
  


Hours had passed, down there in Limbo. Now they were coming towards the edge of Dom and Mal’s fantasy world, past the ruins of buildings, past Saito’s derelict mansion on the hill. Towards a vast stretch of sand that blurred in a golden haze of dust, a sky shrouded in perpetual sandstorm. Dom remembered it from the days building, sometimes he had looked into that desert and seen strange figures in ancient armour. You saw unusual things in Limbo. You accepted them. That was how it went.

  
  


After their initially rocky start, Eames and the raven Matthew had really hit it off and the raven was now hitching a ride on Eames’ shoulder and the two were swapping stories, Eames regaling them with tired tales of his numerous cons and forgeries, even roping Dom into telling Matthew about inception, which Matthew had been politely interested about - to a point (he’d actually laughed when they’d mentioned it being difficult, because of course, _his_ Lord could bestow waking sleep and _PERMANENT NIGHTMARES_ on people. What was inception to him but a simple party trick?). Before being a raven, apparently, Matthew had been a government agent named Matthew Cable (the Professor had heard of him in passing) and his life as a human, what he wanted to share anyway, sounded a complete disaster. No wonder Eames related to him so much. Well. Aside from the whole ‘knowing Swamp Thing’ and ‘developing bizarre reality control powers’ and the ‘getting drunk, crashing a car, and dying in a coma thing’.

  
  


“So you just have to die in a dream and you get a job offer? Why you?” Eames asked, with the tone of a man who wanted a backup career in case of fatalities. Call it a life insurance policy if you would, guarantee of an interesting afterlife, even if oh yes, you spent the entire time as a member of the family _Corvidae_.

  
  


“Beats me if I know. You never could tell what the boss was thinking. He was an inscrutable guy, inscrutable as fuck, yeah, could’ve been the posterchild for inscrutable, dictionary definition and all. Except when he...wasn’t...but that didn’t happen often.” Matthew shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a better perch “You started out thinking of him as enigmatic, distant, weird, and he could be all of those things...could be terrifying when he put his mind to it, or accidentally terrifying and he wouldn’t even realise. But then he’d do something and you could see it hurt him and you’d think, you know what, 10 billion years has taught you nothing, you’re still an idiot. Only I can’t say that because you’re my boss and you’re actually infinitely powerful here and I owe you everything and- and shit.”

  
  


“What happened?” Ariadne asked gently. “What changed?” Miles was listening curiously, probably taking mental notes. He had been asking Matthew all manner of bizarre questions the entire time, but nobody had dared broach that topic. Why had the man in black disappeared, to be replaced with a man in white? What had caused this switch to occur? The way the raven spoke about the past, he called the Lord of Dreams ‘the boss’, when he spoke about the present it was always ‘the kid’. He made a distinction between point A and point B. And the way he skirted around the topic carefully made it clear it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about, it was close to his heart and it was emotionally charged.

  
  


“He died. Well, an aspect of Dream died. Lord _Morpheus_ died.”

  
  


“What, the guy out of the Matrix?” Eames chuckled, amused, only to be pecked on the ear by an angry raven. “Sorry. I mean I suppose it might be a more common name than I anticipated.”

  
  


“Morpheus was a god of sleep and dreams,” Miles explained. “Greek. Appears in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The word morphine derives from his name.”

  
  


“Does it? How fascinating?” remarked Eames dryly, in exchange for another peck “Ow! Stop doing that!”

  
  


“ _Show some respect for the dead, then._ ” Matthew hissed, which was odd, because up until that point he’d been irreverent, sarcastic, and occasionally outright mocking of others who had passed on. He’d even been borderline rude about his former boss; hadn’t he just called him an idiot earlier? But then again, he was entitled to his memories. Eames, Dom and Miles, they had no place blundering into these things. “He had a lot of names. Morpheus, Oneiros-”

  
  


“From that story with Orpheus!” Miles exclaimed.

  
  


Matthew shot the Professor a withering look “Don’t even talk to me about Orpheus. Don’t even start. What happened with Orpheus directly caused the boss’...incident. I don’t really want to talk about it. He was given a choice, change or die. He couldn’t change. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  
  


“Orpheus and Morpheus.” Eames remarked, after a surprisingly respectful silence. “I’m surprised nobody’s written an epic poem of it yet.”

  
  


“There’s one in the library.” Matthew replied, for once not assaulting Eames for insensitivity. “Someone drafted it up in dreams. Lucien cries when he reads it, but he pretends he doesn’t. I mean, it’s depressing shit, I don’t blame him. Anyway, after what happened with the boss, a new aspect of Dream took his place. ‘cause he was only one aspect of the concept of Dream, see, and there just happened to be this kid waiting in the wings and he grew up magically and became Dream. And that’s where we stand. He’s got all of the boss’ memories. He’s a lot more... _human_ you know, he has humanity in him - no, really, he’s partially human, not that you’d get that from meeting him but he is. Not as scary. Occasionally a bit weird but that’s part of the job. He’s a good kid.”

  
  


“Anything else we should know?” Dom asked “Other important things?”

  
  


“Nope,” said Matthew, ruffling his feathers. “That’s about the size of it.”

  
  


They continued on in silence for a good while, heading down some narrow alleyways Dom couldn’t remember building, to the edge of what they knew as Limbo. To the desert. As far as the eye could see, dunes stretched out for mile after imaginary mile. If only they had thought to dream up a hyper-rail or something vaguely science-fictiony. _Beam me up, Scotty, and all._ But away from the main-ground of Limbo, their control over their surroundings diminished, replaced instead by endless sand. They had a realm to traverse, and their guide was getting jumpy, hopping from foot to foot on Eames’ shoulder, twitching nervously.

  
  


“The desert,” he said. “Not far. But goes on for ages. Literally.”

  
  


“What are you afraid of?” Ariadne asked. “What’s in there that scares you?”

  
  


The raven looked as sheepish as a raven can, and then, in the softest voice a such a harsh-toned bird could managed, murmured quietly “The _past._ ”

  
  


-

  
  


This place was a gift that kept on giving, in an unsettling, terrifying way. You could see the lure, the bait that Dom - and his daughter - had fallen for.  Now they had a desert to cross, a desert in which time was flexible. Genghis Khan, Marco Polo, even Dmitri Mendeleev, might still be wandering around. Mendeleev, who had seen the periodic table in a _dream._ That had been a matter those investigating the pale man had also been assigned with; when things came to people in dreams, where did they come from? _Their own subconscious,_ so the official story went, but other people _doubted_. Seeing this place, Professor Miles did too. You got a sense of that tremendous power that governed it, which Matthew claimed was less intimidating now but Professor Miles wondered exactly where a talking raven - who also happened to be an ex-government agent, friend-of-a-friend, Miles knew people who had _mourned_ Matthew Cable, little did they know he was now a TALKING BLOODY RAVEN in service of the LITERAL DREAM-KING - drew the line.

  
  


On the edge of the desert, apparently.

  
  


“You see?” Matthew said, after an explanation. “I ain’t really comfortable going through there at eye level, so I’m going to fly a bit above and you just follow me, alright? Don’t talk to anybody. If you see a guy in black who looks like a right mopey-ass, ignore him. He’s in the past. You can’t change the past.” The raven sounded uncertain, as if he didn’t trust himself not to be tempted to try. “Understood?”

  
  


“Crystal clear,” replied Mr. Eames, sweetly. Miles smiled, but inside he was somewhat frustrated with his fellow countryman, who had some sort of deficiency that meant he never bloody shut up. Chance’d be a fine thing. At least Arthur was elsewhere, there was only so much of Mr. Eames’ ironically flirtatious banter one could take (well, he maintained it was ironic but Miles knew the type. It was ironic for as long as Arthur turned him down. The minute he was into it would be the minute it became serious).

  
  


“How long should it take us to reach the main kingdom?” Dom asked. “We’re working on a deadline.” All those years in Limbo, and he’d never tried to cross the desert. Perhaps because the concept of crossing the desert was one associated with death, perhaps because he was busy colonising that one corner of the Dreaming. Perhaps because he was scared of what might lie beyond.

  
  


Weren’t they all?

  
  


“As long as it takes. Probably not very, but who knows? And honestly, who cares?” Matthew snorted, and prepared to take flight. “See you on the other side.”

  
  


_Definitely sounds like a metaphor for dying_ thought the Professor, as he watched the raven fly ahead of them. Shrugging, he followed, one foot in front of the other onto shifting sands, shifting not only through physicality, but through _time._ Dom was right. You didn’t get dreams like this without some sort of architect. Right now they could be walking right into the subconscious of Vlad Tepes, the Impaler, _Dracula._ Miles wondered if his dreams would be full of bats. Or virgins and long pointy sticks. Or something soft and warm, something innocent and pure, for once in the psychopath’s life. In his dreams.

  
  


More likely, it would be full of sand. Like everyone out here’s dreams. Grit. Sand. Dirt. And long smears of nothingness. An amber sky.

  
  


On they walked, following the black dot of a raven up above, as he looped back to check they were following, never dipping too low, occasionally darting ahead out of sight, to clarify their route, then flying back. Once or twice he came back to them and told them they were taking a diversion around some West African warlord, or an ancient and powerful Native shaman, or Amelia Earhart, and they heard voices on the other side of particularly large dunes. Voices of lost dreamers, who were far from where they should have been.

  
  


And then, just as Matthew said there was only a little way left, after they’d been walking long enough for Mr. Eames to start with the ‘are we nearly there yet’s like a bloody five-year-old, a voice calling their names. _Bollocks_ Miles thought, until he recognised that voice.

  
  


Mal. Somewhere, an echo of her still dreamt. Years ago. And they had to walk the one route, through that desert, that led them past her. Coincidence? Miles was very much naturally scornful of coincidences.

  
  


“Papa! _Mon père!_ Dom! Please Dom, please help me. Help me out of this desert.”

  
  


Dom said nothing. He walked faster, heart hardened. Miles couldn’t do the same.

  
  


“She’s out there, Dom. It’s her. Not a projection, but the real Mal!”

  
  


“We can’t change history. Matthew said-”

  
  


“Sod what Matthew said!” snapped Professor Miles “Do you know what Matthew did, when he was human? He went _insane_. Did some appalling things before he died. He didn’t mention that, did he?” _He did the right thing in the end, though_ something reminded Miles of that. _He wasn’t a bad person, per se. Anyone would go insane after what happened to him. And he did supposedly get possessed, technically, so…_

“I need to see her, Dom.”

  
  


“I know.” he said. “I thought I did too. I built a dreamscape of memories to visit her in, but my projection of her- got out. It won’t make it better. Why do you think Matthew refuses to see his boss, his _friend_? Because you can’t meddle with these things. Some things can’t be fixed.”

“Why?” Miles pleaded, _Mal pleaded,_ from a point somewhere on one of the dunes, a shadow watching them and coming closer. Underneath, Miles understood. He knew they mustn’t see Mal but he couldn’t help it. It was Ariadne who touched his arm, who pulled him away, back to the acceptance he had managed to achieve in the Waking World - or thought he had achieved. They walked faster, running until Mal was out of earshot, her begging cries still echoing in Professor Miles’ ears. Falling to his knees, he wept, bitter tears rolling down his cheeks. Gradually he came to realise his son-in-law was embracing him, and together they remembered _her._

  
  


“You guys done yet?” Matthew had flown in while Miles had been out of it. He sounded somewhat awkward. “Yes, Eames, we’re there. Just over this dune.”

  
  


“I think, old chap, they might need a moment,” Eames replied gently, in a moment of rare sensitivity.

  
  


“I understand,” the raven said, and Professor Miles knew he did.

  
  


Dom caught his breath. “I knew what would happen. Mal told me about this, years ago, way before Limbo,” he said, almost inaudible against the desert breeze. “She had a dream where she was alone in the desert, and she saw us - even mentioned you, Eames. And we ran away from her. _Abandoned_ her, all on her own in that place. Until-” he cut off, and looked at Matthew by looking everywhere but Matthew, trying to pretend he _wasn’t_ looking at Matthew (which technically he wasn’t, but everyone knew that was what he was doing).

  
  


“Until what?” the accused party fired back, defensively.

  
  


“Until _he_ showed up.” Dom said tactfully.

  
  


_Oh._

  
  


_-_

  
  


_ Oh. _

  
  


_Many years ago, Mal Cobb, née Miles, wandered through a desert of dreams, where time is immaterial. She saw through the years, to a time beyond her own death, where those she loved most ran from her and where her husband seemingly had another woman by his side._

  
  


_And in that desert, in the Dreaming, it is happening now. Because that is how time works there._ _ Now.  _

  
  


_She becomes aware of footfalls behind her and turns, to see a tall man, robed in night, with the very definition of inscrutability written all over his ivory countenance. You know his eyes by now. They were starlight._

  
  


“ _You-” she begins, but cuts off under that gaze, that paralytic gaze. He probably isn’t even aware he’s giving her it, she thinks, it’s just the set of his features, the natural look of his eyes. “My father spoke of you. I thought you were gone- like this I mean.”_

  
  


“ _Time is unusual, out here. Future, past, it all happens at once,” the man says in a rich, dark voice, beautiful but...there is a coldness in it. She sees something akin to apprehension in those accidentally terrible eyes. He knows something is coming, a great change. And he_ _fears_ _it. “Whatever is about to happen, the Dreaming will continue. It is my responsibility to maintain it.”_

  
  


“ _You’re scared,” she says “Whoever you are, you’re frightened of what is to come.”_

  
  


“ _I am not-” the man begins, then his head sinks. “Perhaps I am. Change is, as an idea,  a disconcerting thing. It will still happen, whether I am ready or not. For you it has already happened, perhaps. Farewell, Mal Cobb.”_

  
  


_She wakes up in 2003 and tells it all to her husband. It was a dream. But as an extractor, she knows it was not_ _ only  _ _a dream. There is always more to things than that. One day, Limbo will take her sanity. She moves on towards to her inevitable fate._

  
  


_In the desert on the edges of the Dreaming, Lord Morpheus walks through the past towards a future that will, ultimately, doom him. His ending is coming. And he walks on. For a moment he thinks perhaps he saw a raven flying overhead, but it ignores him. It cannot be Matthew then. Can’t it? He walks on._

  
_Towards_ _an ending._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew I couldn't NOT write Morpheus. I needed him to appear. And how better than to have a dead character's meeting club. Sorry if I hurt anyone's feels. I understand.
> 
> Also I figured out how to get rid of the other note that kept reappearing. Go me


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the group come face to face with Dream. And his reasoning for bringing them there becomes clear. Meanwhile, in the Waking World, something ODD is going on. And everyone knows that behind every odd occurrence trails one man; an obnoxious chainsmoking bastard in a ratty trenchcoat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so a couple of things. This fic is getting longer. I intended there to be only a few more chapters. Nope. Suddenly there's this intrigue I DIDN'T PLAN FOR INTRIGUE BUT IT HAPPENED and then YOU KNOW FUCKING WHO jumps out and suddenly this is not longer a Sandman/Inception crossover, we've got a tagalong Hellblazer as well. Oops. I mean I referenced him so much and we all wanted to see the dynamic so...basically it's a threesome now. Enjoy the sudden change in programme. 
> 
> And like I said 'OOPS'

** Chapter 6 **

  
  


Since they had left the desert, the landscape had become far more breathtaking and dramatic. Also considerably more eccentric, as the intensity of the creator’s powers increased (‘Closer to the heart of the Dreaming, his influence is stronger. He’s practically invincible there’, or so Matthew said). Mountains rose up out of nowhere and stopped as abruptly as they began. Various bizarre creatures Lewis Carroll would have been proud to concoct flitted past. It was actually rather like a cross between said Wonderland and something out of a Tim Burton movie, albeit with less rocking-horse flies and more...men with pumpkins for heads. 

  
  


Exactly like a Tim Burton movie, then.

  
  


“Hey Matthew, how’s it hangin’?” the pumpkin asked in a bizarre sort of American accent, as he rolled a skinny cigarette “Who’re these suckers?”

  
  


“Nice to see you too, Merv. Mr. Eames, Cobb, Prof and Ariadne, meet Mervyn Pumpkinhead. Resident -” the raven seemed stumped for a moment “You know I have no idea what he actually does around here aside from complain.”

  
  


“Me?” Merv seemed offended, stuck the cigarette behind...his ear? Where Cobb reckoned his ear would be if he were not a pumpkin anyhow. And then he waved the broom he had been leaning on, trying to hit Matthew with it “I clean up the shit you-know-who can’t be bothered sortin’ himself. While he’s busy looking pretty and staring nobly off into the distance. Though, to be fair to him, the weather has improved a lot around here. Last one was an angsty pretentious piece of-”

  
  


Matthew’s corvid face took on a look of avian panic, as he tried to dissuade Merv from speaking. Following the raven’s faze, Cobb’s jaw dropped. Descending from the sky was the man in white, positively glowing on his chest and the only person unaware of his presence was Merv. His feet touched soil, and he took a step closer, almost - but not quite - smiling, his ethereal aura filling the space around him. Silence fell, except for the sound of Mervyn’s insults and complaints.

  
  


“I mean, at least we actually see sunlight these days-”

  
  


“Merv,” Matthew whispered, jerking his head to indicate behind him. The pumpkin’s face fell - figuratively, not literally, as is possible with a vegetable for a skull.

  
  


“Shit. It ain’t happened again, has it? Why does he always do that?” Merv muttered, turning around and grinning “Hey, uh…look, I can explain...”

  
  


“I will hear no ill words spoken about my predecessor, thank you,” Dream said “It would do you good to remember he who made you, Mervyn Pumpkinhead.”

  
  


“Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever,” the pumpkin muttered, picking up a broom and replacing the cigarette in his mouth “Have fun,” his tone as he addressed the group was deeply sarcastic, and as they headed towards their pigmentless host, Dom was sure he heard him muttering “Never thought I’d be prayin’ for rain, but this much sunlight makes me sick…” and so his complaints trailed off into occasional heavily accented mutters. 

  
  


Nobody was sure quite what to say. There he stood, the majestic personification of dreams himself, arm extended out. Matthew took flight from Eames’ shoulder and landed on the awaiting limb, landing without fault. He stood out, black feathers against the sheer  _ polar  _ white of Dream’s long robes. Now the Dream-Lord turned his attention to his guests, and when he spoke, his tone sounded respectful.

  
  


“Welcome,” he inclined his head “I hope you will appreciate your stay in my realm. Your friend Arthur is waiting for you at my home.”

  
  


“Arthur? Is he alright? You didn’t give him a heart attack, I hope.” Eames smirked, trying to divert attention away from his evident concern for their friend and colleague. He seemed the most comfortable with the situation, indeed, he was just rolling with whatever happened. 

  
  


“No. I had him escorted to the library.”

  
  


“Just where he belongs, no offence to the fellow, but he is rather a nerd.” Suddenly, the gravity of the situation seemed to hit even Eames, and he was for once in his life, at a loss for words. What did you say when faced with the person whose realm you spent your entire life meddling about in? Sorry, you left the door unlocked so we slipped in and got ourselves a starring role? The unsettling thought that he allowed them to play their trivial little games, watched them from behind his sincere-looking face with amusement, came upon Dom, and he couldn’t get the thought out of his head. Every job they’d run. Everything. He knew more about them than they would ever know about him. They were at a distinct tactical disadvantage should anything go wrong.

  
  


Then again, wasn’t that always the story of Dom’s life?

  
  


“It’s an honour to meet you,” Ariadne smiled and extended a hand, a little disappointed when it was rejected. “I only just found out you existed, but this guy,” here she indicated Professor Miles “He’s been researching you for years.”

  
  


“I am well aware of that. Professor,” Dream inclined his head “Am I what you expected?” there was something, a concern, an anxiety in his voice. Self-consciousness. Wanting to live up to the legacy he had been handed. Miles was too awestruck to notice.

  
  


“All that, and more. Well. Actually John Constantine said you were, and I quote, ‘a creepy fuck’ but aside from that minor difference, you are everything I hoped I’d meet.”

  
  


“John Constantine. Eloquent as ever.” There was no trace of sarcasm in the Dream-Lord’s voice, he sounded entirely sincere “He was quite an interesting man. I took away his nightmares for him. Or at least, those pertaining to the Newcastle Incident. His request was unspecific as to the rest. And there were other nightmares I could do nothing about, those that plagued him in the Waking World.”

  
  


“Not your circus, not your monkeys, hm?” said Eames.

  
  


“ Indeed.” Now the man, the  _ Sandman _ _ ,  _ turned his attention to Dom, fixing him with a knowing look. “Mr. Cobb. At least we meet properly. I am sorry to hear what happened to Mal. I fear I was indirectly responsible for her fate.”

  
  


“Maybe,” Dom said “I always blamed myself.” The minute he spoke, he wondered why he had. “I couldn’t save her.” He felt his father-in-law place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but he continued to stare at Dream instead.

  
  


After a while, the pale figure spoke “In my previous incarnation, I experienced great losses, hence what Mervyn said about the less than clement weather. So believe me when I say that, by way of memory, I understand your pain. And I am sorry for my part in her death.”

  
  


“I don’t know what to say-” Dom began, trying to find suitable words “This isn’t exactly a typical job. Why did you bring us here?”

  
  


Silence. Worlds moved, and the stars inside those tenebrous eyes glimmered. 

  
  


“Why are we here?” Dom asked again “Is this just an apology, or what? Proof that you exist?”

  
  


“Life lessons? Character development?” Eames added “How to ruin relationships for beginners? Do we get free badges saying ‘I’ve met the personification of dreams, how about you?’ Did you get really, really bored one night and think ‘I know, those gentlemen - and lady -’” here he tipped his head at Ariadne who smiled and returned in kind “‘They seem like an entertaining bunch, I’ll invite them over for tea and scones and we can have a round of poker’? Please tell me your aren’t auditioning for a new date, my heart already belongs to another.”

  
  


“Who?” Ariadne asked curiously “Arthur?”

  
  


“No, of course not!” Eames grinned “Myself, obviously. The heart is a vital part of the circulatory system. I can hardly go handing it out to other people.”

  
  


“Eames!” hissed Dom, shooting his friend a ‘be quiet or die’ glare, of the sort you had to give all too often around that dreg of humanity, followed by a despairing ‘why are we friends?’ headshake (trademarked by Arthur).

  
  


“Oh, I’m sorry. Have I said something?” Because making reference to habitual relationship ruining wasn’t at all insensitive. 

  
  


“Can we all just collectively apologise on behalf of Eames?” Ariadne had an amused smirk on her face, eyebrows raised sarcastically “I feel like that’s something that’d be productive.”

  
  


“Oh, fantastic, blame it all on me why don’t you? You wound me, Ariadne, right here.” Eames placed a hand on his chest in mock operatic drama fashion.

  
  


So it went, back and forth, banter levels intensifying until Dom and Miles were driven to despair exchanging worried looks. “He’s showing us up in front of the god of dreams,” whispered Miles “Bloody Eames. He has no sense of decorum; or, rather, he does, and he just chooses to behave like a complete and total tit.”

  
  


“It’s a coping mechanism, when he gets stressed,” Dom shrugged “You think this is bad, you should have seen him in Germany. Berlin, ‘99. Arthur still has scars.”

  
  


“Physical or emotional?”

  
  


“Both, I think,” Dom hazarded a guess. Berlin had been one of his early jobs with Eames, and the first time Arthur had met the thief, fraud and habitual forger. It had not gone particularly well.

  
  


“How do we shut him up?” muttered Miles, through tight-set gritted teeth.

  
  


“ _ We _ don’t,” said Dom Cobb, indicating the pale man whose pristine porcelain hands were now raised. “He does.”

  
  


Dream waved his hands, and several things happened at once, the strangest of which being that Eames fell silent. And the world moved around them, spinning, spinning, spinning, a castle emerging all around them, and they were stood at the top of a flight of impressive, towering stairs. There was a griffin by the gates, which positively loomed above them.

  
  


“Welcome,” intoned the echoing voice of Dream “To my home.”

  
  


-

  
  


Oh bugger.

  
  


That was the only word Eames could think of to describe his current situation, and even then he couldn’t force the syllables past his lips.  _ Oh bugger.  _

  
  


Shit, with a side order of cattle-excrement known to his American camarades as  _ bullshit _ _.  _ Mentally, Eames rattled off curse after curse - after the four letter words, he started on place names: Sodom and Gomorrah; Hell and Purgatory; Hades and... _ Manchester.  _ Then abstract concepts - namely one Dream of the Endless variety who was currently, was currently...Eames wasn’t sure what it was he was doing but he was currently living up to the Hellblazer’s description of ‘a creepy fuck’, to a T. And he didn’t even realise he was doing it.

  
  


The thing wasn’t that he was overtly sinister. No, he radiated an unusual peacefulness, grace, but when you looked into those eyes, and they looked into you, you couldn’t help but feel cold, that he was inherently cold through no fault of his own. This wasn’t just some peculiar-looking child in fancy dress. This was  _ Dream.  _ Everything about him was so thoroughly other. While he exhibited yes, empathy, humanity, Eames shuddered to think what his predecessor must have been like.

  
  


“It’s beautiful,” Ariadne said, as if that word alone could encapsulate the sheer majesty of the Dream-Lord’s place of residence. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you get the design from?”

  
  


“ Much of it is entirely original, though I sought to incorporate works I admired from the dreams of lost architects. Its existence relies wholly upon myself. While I - in my previous aspect - was  _ away, _ ”  he spoke that word with a heavy weight,  _ away _ , as if he’d popped out down to the shops for a pint of milk, or whatever anthropomorphic personifications put on their cornflakes. “The palace was severely affected, worse perhaps than anywhere else,” the pale countenance of Dream twitched a little with what was almost a smile “I imagine you, Ariadne, would like to examine the building. Matthew will show you around, you may study it at your leisure. Mr.  _ Eames… _ as you prefer to be known, though that is not your name,” he turned his attention to the suddenly silent forger who tried to behave politely for once “You will want to see the library and commune with your friend. Matthew will also show you the way there. Professor, Mr. Cobb, I will speak with you. We must discuss your incursions, and whether they have a future. I do not seek to put you out of work, understand, but manipulating my realm for your ends is wrong. The inception of an idea, placing a thought in someone else’s mind, that is something that I take issue with. It has been...pointed out to me-”

  
  


“By those with common sense,” muttered Matthew, who apparently had more leeway than Merv to say and do as he pleased, as personal friend of his Lordship. He had taken a seat on Ariadne’s shoulder instead as Eames’, and the forger couldn’t help but feel a little offended, even though it was probably more practical for Ariadne’s tour, rather than playing Musical Joints. 

  
  


The raven went ignored. “That I have already been too  _ allowing  _ with you. That letting you construct dreamscapes in an eddy of my realm, a mere bubble, tip of an iceberg, is too much freedom. I would agree. During my absence, you were able to get in, to build here. When I returned, I could have forced you to desist then. At first I simply wanted to see what you would build, given the chance,  but as your dreams grew richer, it has become apparent this is will no longer work peacefully. Dreams within dreams...you were not supposed to be capable of such things.”

  
  


“ So what, this was an experiment? To see how us mortals would cope? To test us?” Cobb sounded incredulous, angrier than Eames had ever seen him “And you’re going to lock us out for doing  _ too well _ ?”

  
  


The Dream-lord hung his head “It is not so simple as that. We will talk. An arrangement will be agreed upon. My brother sees it written.”

  
  


Professor Miles perked up at this “Your brother? Ah, what was he called in the Orpheus story, Potmos? Destiny?”

  
  


“Orpheus…” Dream said slowly, his light, clear voice seeming darker, deceptively richer. Matthew rolled his eyes.

  
  


“I said not to-” the raven began, but Dream waved a hand, cutting his friend off. The raven nudged Ariadne, and she set off on her merry tour. Eames took a few steps forward at first, then lingered behind, concealed behind one of the vast gates, listening to the conversation.

  
  


“I intended no offence, Lord-” Professor Miles began, to be met with a similarly dismissive gesture. “I am a scholar and find your presence fascinating - though it is actually architecture I teach.”

  
  


“I am aware of that,” said Dream, his voice returned to the crystal bell it was before. He sounded very young all of a sudden, or had he always seemed that way? “I have taken the liberty of using some of your work in one of the new wings of my palace. And I take no offence at the mention of my predecessor’s son. It is a sore subject for Matthew. He was very fond of Morpheus. And in turn, I was fond of him,” the Dream-lord’s head turned and he stared directly at the gap in the gates, behind which Eames hid. “Mr. Eames.”

  
  


Sighing reluctantly, Eames followed Matthew and Ariadne down hallways Arthur would no doubt have loved to wrestle projections in, from what he boasted about the inception gig. Shame they weren’t revolving with the movements of a van and had all their own gravity. Eames wondered if they had acquired gravity from their creator, gravitas transmuted into an actual force. It was a silly idea, but Eames didn’t care. You had to have a little fun sometimes, to let your mind wander…

  
  


Especially when Professor Miles and Dom were probably getting the whole ‘come and be a raven’ offer. And Cobb was going to be out of a job soon, not that he’d care because he was back home with his children. He’d have to go back to architecture. It was Arthur who had precious few other options. What did Arthur actually  _ do _ aside from entering dreams? What was his actual field of interest? What was he? Eames didn’t know. He’d never listened to Arthur long enough to find out, and Arthur was hardly willing to speak about it. If extraction stopped, Eames resolved to find Arthur an actual job, as recompense for being an annoying bastard the rest of the time.

  
  


“Here we are,” Matthew indicated the entrance to what must have been the library “The library. Your friend’s in there.”

  
  


“Can I see it too?” Ariadne asked, and the raven nodded. Together they went through the door into the largest library ever known. Volume upon volume, shelf upon shelf upon shelf going on and on further than the eye could see. Forever, perhaps. God, why? They were never going to be able to persuade Arthur to leave. 

  
  


And there he was, talking to a tall man, whose arms and legs were disproportionately long and skinny, whose hair stuck out and who wore glasses and some sort of attempt at a suit - in other words, the librarian. “So there’s an entire new Middle Earth book centred around Aragorn’s son?”

  
  


“Indeed there is, as Tolkien intended to write before his death. Also, over here, you may observe we have a book of Finished Tales...”

  
  


“And he wrote it in dreams…” Arthur shook his head “This place is impossible. It’s not...rational. It doesn’t make sense.”

  
  


“Because everything has to make sense,” Eames chipped in, revelling in the way Arthur jumped in shock and turned around. “Arthur.”

  
  


“Eames,” Arthur smiled, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, hugged his friends. Eames smiled. “Ariadne. Sorry. I don’t think I’ll be able to administer the kick since a certain mythical figure dragged me down here.”

  
  


“ Do you think that will be a problem for  _ him _ ?” the librarian smiled faintly “You will stay here as long as he chooses.” He inclined his head at the raven. “Matthew. It’s good to see you. Have you seen our Lord?”

  
  


“Yeah, yeah, he’s discussing the proposal with Cobb and the Prof, I think it’s going just fine. Give it a rest, Lucien, you’re always the one saying we shouldn’t treat him any different to-” The librarian coughed covertly and Matthew ruffled his feathers indignantly and reluctantly changed the topic “Eames, Ariadne, this is Lucien. Keeper of the library in the Dreaming. Ex-raven.”

  
  


The tall man bowed, a complex folding of limbs and joints. Eames wondered how long he had needed to practise to perfectly coordinate that movement. “It is my pleasure.”

  
  


“What proposal?” Arthur asked, puzzled “Why are we here?”

  
  


Eames grimaced “Well, the good news, old chap, is that we’re going to live out the rest of our days unconcerned with the world of the unconscious mind.”

  
  


“Which means?”

  
  


“Extraction is over. We just lost our jobs.”

  
  


Matthew laughed raucously “That’s not what the proposal is. Well, partially. But not fully.”

  
  


“Then what?”

  
  


And as the raven spoke, the occasional fraud and conman felt his blood run cold. This wasn’t a liquidation, this wasn’t a social call, this was what? What could you possibly call  _ this _ ? 

  
  


_ A job interview. _

  
  


If this was how the audition normally went, then Eames didn’t want to be a raven anymore.

  
  


-

_ Outside the Dreaming, in the Waking World, something was happening. That was what this was about. Something that directly affected the Dreaming itself, and thus concerned the Lord of that realm. The question was who could he use as his agents in this affair _

  
  


_ Go in person? No. Not without violating, or at the very least, flouting, the Rules. He could not attend. Should not attend. Must not attend. _

  
  


_ The Corinthian? Efficient though the team of the nightmare and Dream’s raven Matthew was, it would draw too much attention for this. Then who? Who moved in those dark and treacherous circles? _

  
  


_ John Constantine? Of course not. The man would never consent to being used. Besides, this didn’t need to get messy, as it invariably would were that fellow involved. _

  
  


_ Who could walk in the Dreaming, and yet were not bound by the Rules? Who could hop between the Waking World and sleep, without requiring transport, only mild sedation? Who could do those things all while having contacts in  _ _ those circles _ _ , the ability to break into safes out there, as well as those in the unconscious mind, filled with deep secrets? _

  
  


_ Who could blend in? _

  
  


_ That they needed a team was obvious. And since inception, the matter of what to do about the extraction problem was a major one. Kill two birds with one stone. Hire the extractors for a job out there, piercing the Waking World for him, extraction in reverse. They fitted the profile perfectly. And he would allow them a deal where they could continue accessing the Dreaming upon occasion. They would be paid in full, in memories, in treasures, in  _ _ dreams. _

  
  


_ What had he hired them to investigate? _

  
  


_ A problem. A clerical error. Something  _ _ weird. _

  
  


_ And where weirdness lies, a man in a long trenchcoat, smoking like Dante’s Inferno, will surely be found, regardless of anyone else’s agenda. _

  
_ Or so they say, anyway. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.  
> This is obviously the Hellblazer version of John we'll be seeing, not the NBC version and sure as hell not Keanu Reeves. Aaaand he'll be showing up later. Be honest, we wanted to see him meet Eames. Let's be really, really honest here. 
> 
> Mother. Fucking. Oops.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside of the Dreaming, Cobb and co are at a corporate function digging into the sinister occurrences. It's a shame, then, about the gatecrasher...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if the plot gets a little tenuous and shaky, I'm just rolling with what comes to me. I hope this works for you guys.

**Chapter 7**

  
  


A party, ultimate social event of the shady corporate world. Saito had got them the invites, at request. He wasn’t too interested in what they did with them - the hosts, a pharmaceutical conglomerate specialising in sleeping tablets, owned shares in his competitors. If they suddenly took a nose-dive, it became better for him.

  
  


They weren’t here to meet the big fish. Rather some smaller, albeit unusual names on the guest list.

  
  


“Rever Sleep Clinic? Never heard of them,” Professor Miles had said “Odd name. It’s very similar to the French for-”

  
  


For _dream._

  
  


Rever Sleep Clinic were funded, so Dream attested, by the company Neuroxx Pharma. They were a small, seventeen-man sleep clinic found just south of London. Hardly worth bothering about, except they had done something impossible.That was why they were here. At a meeting of pill-pushers and sleep doctors, with the occasional hypnotherapist and psychiatrist. It was a gathering of experts, and so having notable extractors present was certainly a turn-up for the books. Having them there would be good, which was why Saito had found it so easy to get the invitations. Neuroxx _wanted_ them there. It was a small world, especially where the unconscious mind and its uses were concerned, and a suspicious clinic needed all the outside help they could get.

  
  


_ Bring all the experts together. And network. Find out who was useful, and who was surplus to requirement.  _

  
  


And so they had been brought out of the Dreaming earlier than their timer had anticipated, hurriedly packed up and then spent the last seven hours on a flight to London, where one of the Neuroxx execs was holding the function. All because someone had found a way to cut people off from the Dreaming. Irreversibly.

  
  


Dream couldn’t personally deal with it because there was a force preventing him from it. He didn’t want to leave the Dreaming right now either, didn’t want to put it at risk of attack by Rever, or whoever was behind Rever Sleep Clinic. Whoever stood at the head of Neuroxx, pulling the strings. A puppetmaster. He had needed sources who couldn’t be traced back to him, people he would be presumed to hate; interlopers on his realm, _extractors_ _._

  
  


James and Philippa had been asleep when they’d left. Dom had looked in on them, kissing their foreheads in farewell. There was a deep uncertainty whether or not he would return.

  
  


All of this was happening because someone, or something, some supernatural force, had set up a bizarre sleep clinic and were using it for nefarious ends. An agenda. Eames blamed the British government. So far one hundred individuals had been removed from the Dreaming, beyond access, and Dream still was uncertain why it was happening.

  
  


“I consulted my brother. He implied you were the people I needed,” the Lord of Dreams had said, to Professor Miles and Dom when they were alone in his palace “Or, rather, his book implied as such. Your purpose is to infiltrate Rever, find out what they are doing and what they intend, and who, precisely, is behind this gross infringement upon my realm.”

In the here and now, they were all suited up: Arthur, Eames, Dom and Miles; Ariadne in a sleek red dress Dream had provided quickly, with the notable absence of any other alternatives. Admittedly it suited her perfectly, her lips made up to the exact same colour, her hair curled delicately around her shoulders. She wore heels, but was still by far the shortest of the posse.

  
  


“So,” Eames began, taking the opportunity to leech of the champagne provided “We’re officially here on Saito’s behalf, as his pet extractors, correct?”

  
  


“Correct,” Arthur finished.

  
  


“And he doesn’t get along with Neuroxx?” Dom nodded “Our angle is Neuroxx’s dislike for Saito. That’s not much to work with.”

  
  


“Best we’ve got,” sighed Dom “Not only are we extractors, we’re the best, and we’re working for their rival. They’ll want to speak to us.”

  
  


“What does Saito _do_ exactly?” Ariadne asked “I know it’s diverse. Fischer was an energy company, this is pharmaceuticals…”

  
  


“Lot of fingers in a lot of pies,” muttered Miles “Sounds legitimate.”

  
  


“Indeed.” Eames smiled a charming smile at one of the well-dressed women on the other side of the room. Arthur shot him a warning look, a ‘not-now-Eames’ look, a ‘there-are-better-uses-of-time-and-you-know-it’ glare. “What? Can’t a fellow smile? Blending in, gentlemen, is all about melting seamlessly into the background. I’m just another frighteningly attractive man in a suit who smiled at that lovely lady. She’ll never remember me.”

  
  


“Nice to know you’re taking this seriously.”

  
  


Eames smiled “Always, Arthur. When am I not?”

  
  


“Do you want an honest answer?”

  
  


“Well,” the Englishman began, then stopped “Oh look, nibbles. Be right back.” A moment later he returned, with little chunks of melon on cocktail sticks. “Look at these. Melon on little sticks! Isn’t that cute?”

  
  


“Yeah, it’s just charming.”

  
  


As the two bickered, Dom noticed his father-in-law staring intensely at nowhere in particular. He nudged him, knowing the academic disliking social events of this kind and would feel ill at ease. “What is it? Missing Adelaide already?” Mrs Miles was on childcare duty, as she had been for those long months after Mal- before inception.

The professor shook his head. “I’ve spent a long time away from her. Perhaps I feel a little guilty about that. But no. That is not my main concern right now. Tell me Dom, do you see that man, over by the champagne fountain? The one in the tatty overcoat? Please say it’s just me.”

  
  


Dom turned around and saw the figure clearly. He stiffened. Arthur, Eames and Ariadne followed his gaze. Only Ariadne didn’t freeze at the very sight of him.

  
  


The man walked with a lazy slouch, an ingrained swagger to his shoulders, the way he regarded everything with tired, worn disdain, like he owned the room. He downed two glasses of champagne in quick succession, pulling a face at the taste, and discarded them surreptitiously, lighting a sneaky cigarette. His face was battered and scarred, roughly hewn from a once-handsome face to create jagged, hardened edges. A cruel smirk flickered as he glanced quickly around the room, clocking everyone, taking in every single detail. Soon those innocent-looking, _cold_ eyes would come to rest upon the stunned crew and it would be disastrous.

  
  


“Act natural,” Dom hissed, pulling them back into a semblance of a circle.

  
  


“Is that-” Ariadne whispered, before Arthur hushed her.

  
  


“Isn’t he supposed to be dead?” he asked.

  
  


Dom risked a look back at that man, whose face he would never forget; it had appeared in a file once, a job, as someone into whose subconscious they were supposed to wander. There was no mistaking him.

  
  


“Yes. That’s John Constantine.”

  
  


Silence.

  
  


Professor Miles coughed. “ _Shit_.”

  
  


-

  
  


Shit was an understatement, if you asked Arthur. Shit didn’t even begin to cover the situation they were now in, chatting and laughing, and letting Eames carry most of the conversation as if nothing had happened. Hoping to god _he_ didn’t notice. Once, they had been hired to get inside that man’s head. They had conducted some reconnaissance before declining the job immediately. The team who did take the job were never the same afterwards.

  
  


“Look,” Miles lowered his voice “If anyone knows what’s going on here it will be him. We should approach him. I’ll do it. He knows me. Dream won’t mind if we collaborate with...in this business, you use whatever assets you can get.”

  
  


“Can you really refer to John fucking Constantine as an _asset_?” Arthur replied.

  
  


“My, Arthur, you do have a foul mouth don’t you?” Eames feigned mock-incredulity

  
  


“Compared to you-know-who? No.”

  
  


“You-know-who? Is this Harry Potter? Is he Voldemort now? He-who-shall-not-be-named?” Eames rolled his eyes and laughed, then his face fell abruptly “Oh God.” They all looked at the empty space where the notorious mage had been “He’s _apparated_!”

  
  


“Is this the part where he turns up behind us?” Ariadne asked Miles offhandedly “You did say he had a penchant for childishness.”

  
  


Slow, sarcastic applause.

  
  


“Well this is nice, innit? Little get-together goin’ on over here. Mind if I sneak in? No?” the occultist smiled “We’ve got a lot to talk about. Like your employer, his Royal Sandiness. Bit of a pompous twat, especially since he upgraded to the new, improved Persil Non-Bio version, but alright when it comes down to it. Didn’t really hold up his end of our last deal, but whatever. Take it he’s getting the same thing I am, people being cut off from sleep altogether, and put the pieces together leading you to this big corporate clusterfuck. Stop me if this is sounding familiar.” He took a drag of his cigarette, and Arthur coughed. Noting this, the man blew smoke directly into his face, seemingly enjoying being a dick more than anything else.

  
  


Cobb nodded. “That’s it. How did you know?”

  
  


Constantine laughed “The same way I know you’re Dom Cobb, best ‘extractor’ there is, you have two children, Philippa and James, and your wife framed you for her suicide. Sounds like one of my exes, if I’m being honest. Oh, and you and your little posse did that inception gig a few months back. You turned the whole rooting around my brain thing down , though. Why? Scared of what you might find?”

  
  


“Job didn’t pay well enough,” Cobb said, his voice admirably level and emotionless. His face was bland. “Fell through.”

  
  


“Story of my life, mate,” the man scanned them “So. A poncy forger, an architecture graduate, you, whatever-the-fuck you’re supposed to be-” he pointed at Arthur “And this arsehole.” Indicating Professor Miles with his cigarette, he casually flicked ash off the end.

  
  


“So you do remember me then?” the academic asked cautiously.

  
  


“Have we met?” Constantine had an odd, off-kilter accent, somewhere between London, a variation on Irish, and what Arthur just about identified as North-of-England, with a side order of sarcasm mixed right in. He sounded permanently mocking and contemptuous, with a gravelly voice that sounded like the person speaking had had their voicebox put through a meat grinder, the voice of a man who had chain-smoked non-stop for the past few decades.

  
  


“I asked you about the Lord of Dreams once,” Professor Miles sounded a little offended “I consulted with you several times. We went for drinks on more than a few occasions.”

  
  


“And you’re still alive?” Constantine smirked “Yeah, I remember you now. No offence but you’re fucking boring. That’s probably how you survived, you know? Everyone I actually like died a long time ago.”

  
  


“Oh. I see.”

  
  


Eames reassumed his usual self in an instant “How, pray, did you wind up here? Colour me intrigued, but you aren’t exactly guest list material.”

  
  


“I didn’t.” Confused silence. “I didn’t _pray_ _._ Ex from way back asked me to look into it. Similar to you only you know, mine was a _friend_ _,_ not an anthropomorphic personification, and I got _asked_ instead as _ordered_. Semantics, innit? So this ex of mine, something happened to one of his kids - he’s married with kids now, there’s a turn-up, didn’t see that coming what with how much he liked cock -” Still Constantine talked, apparently unaware of the looks he was getting “Honestly, haven’t seen him since he walked out with my wallet and five grand in cash way back, fuck it, back in the band days, right? Wasn’t too keen to hear from him but then I hear his son’s in some kind of comatose wide-awake zombie state and bless he’s only fifteen. Couldn’t pass that up. Even offered me the money back, but told me to piss off when I tried to charge interest.” Eames snorted, and was shot down with an icy glare “As for how I got in, once I’d traced the son’s treatment back to the Rever Sleep Clinic, I found this poncy corporate shithole, told the man on the door that **I AM WEARING A TUXEDO AND YES I DEFINITELY DO HAVE AN INVITATION.** ” Here, his voice took on an almost hypnotic, resonant quality “And he just let me in. Like that.” He clicked his fingers. “Simples.”

  
  


Arthur sighed. They’d gone to all the trouble of calling Saito and requesting he get them in, and meanwhile John Constantine had merrily waltzed in like he hadn’t a care in the world. It irked him. John _knew_ it irked him, and was feeding off his irritation, blowing smoke in his general direction again. At last Arthur understood why so many people so utterly despised that man. And it wasn’t anything to do with his tendency to betray his so-called friends.

  
  


“Right then,” Constantine continued, seizing immediate control over the situation “You carry on with your plan, I’ve got my own angles. See you when I see you.”

  
  


He turned, stubbed out the cigarette and walked away, bumping into Eames on his way out, and leaving everyone breathing a sigh of relief.

  
  


Ariadne spoke first “Is it just me that found his accent really hard to understand?”

 _No. It’s not._ thought Arthur, who had been struggling through the entire exchange and could see Cobb had been doing the same. The two Brits, Eames and Miles, had an inherent advantage here.

  
  


“Scousers,” Eames shrugged and smiled “He is fascinating to watch, isn’t he?”

  
  


Arthur shook his head “Eames.”

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“He just stole your wallet.”

  
  


The forger raided his pockets, turning them out one by one. When his search revealed nothing but his totem and some gum, his face fell from one of wonder to sublime hatred.

  
  


“The bastard! What a complete and total _arse_.”

  
  


“At least he’s ‘fascinating to watch’, though, isn’t he? Right Eames?” Arthur couldn’t help baiting his friend. Revenge was sweet.

  
  


“Oh fuck off Arthur!” hissed Eames

  
  


“Language! Looks like someone has a foul mouth today.”

  
  


“...I hate you.”

  
  


Arthur laughed “Just returning the favour, Mr. Eames. Just returning the favour. Anyway. Don’t we have work to be doing?”

  
  


-

  
  


_While they make polite conversation with other guests, in the Rever Sleep Clinic, a being is manipulating events in order to bring about chaos to the Dreaming. So far its influence is only slight, but it is gaining, gaining._

  
  


_It has plans. It has an agenda._

  
  


_In the castle at the heart of the Dreaming, this agenda remains as yet unknown, but how the Prince of Stories fears for his realm._

  
  


_And how Matthew and Lucien fear for him. They have lost one master already. They do not ever wish to go through that again, especially not so soon after last time. But regardless of their concerns, the Dreaming_ _ is  _ _under attack and they can do nothing to stop it._

  
  


_Their hopes remain pinned on a group of extractors and a tag-along exorcist who is somewhat getting in the way._

  
  


“ _I told you this was a bad idea,” Matthew caws, and Lucien cannot argue with him._

  
  


_Yes, it is a bad idea. But it is the only option available to them, and thus it is the one they have stuck by. In their faith in their Lord. They trust his judgement, if a little cautiously._

  
“ _I know, Matthew. I know.”_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit I love writing Hellblazer!John and his general attitude. It's so fun.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cobb and the team sidle up to high-ups from Rever, while Constantine heads down the pub with Chas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, it's been a while. I'm not committing to regular updates with this one because I don't want pressure to ruin the work. Don't get me wrong, I'm capable of working to a deadline but I don't want to. I'd prefer to do this on my own time. Don't worry about it getting abandoned, I have a story to tell. I'm not that sort of fic writer. 
> 
> Enjoy

**Chapter 8**

  
  


After three hours of loitering around the room attempting to mingle and make polite conversation, finally they had got the attention they needed, face to face with Alan Keele, board director for Neuroxx and Doctor Lisbeth Kincaid, head of the Rever institute, both of whom were wearing their most passive-aggressive smiles as they shook hands with Dom and the others. It was a delicate dance of thinly-veiled loathing, and one you got used to in the world of corporate espionage Dom Cobb had inhabited for the best part of his life (not counting the many years spent in Limbo).

  
  


“It is an absolute pleasure, really Mr Cobb, it is,” Doctor Kincaid’s clipped, formal British was almost sincere. “Your work in extraction is entirely unparalleled. I don’t even exaggerate. You are the best of the best and we talk about you often at Rever. It’s a shame you’re still in the pocket of that bloodthirsty sociopath.”

  
  


“Yeah, have you ever thought about looking elsewhere?” Mr Keele chipped in “The Rever Sleep Clinic is at the forefront of latest developments, and always seeking new consultants. If you ever wanted to do something better, make a difference, _contribute_ to the advancement of our species you really need to look around a little. I think you’ll find here at Neuroxx, and of course, our little pet project,” he squeezed Doctor Kincaid’s shoulder, she winced uncomfortably “Your particular giftings would really be an asset. How much does Saito pay you?”

  
  


The thing about being the best in the world was it was almost too easy to sidle up to your targets and persuade them that you were the right way to go. It was about give and take. You couldn’t give too much without seeming off, that was just common sense. Even Ariadne knew that and aside from inception, her only experience of this world was from spy movies.

  
  


Not even interesting spy movies, since, as Eames pointed out, the only ones with corporate espionage in were really, really boring.

“That’s confidential information,” Dom replied.

  
  


“That low?” Kincaid laughed. “Only a few years back you were the biggest thing in extraction, now look at you. No offence, but the company you keep is,” she looked Eames up and down and he smiled a particularly fake smile “ _Wanting_.” Her eyes glossed over Ariadne and she shrugged. “Still, you are of course entitled to your team, interesting though your choices may be.”

  
  


“Ariadne is an excellent architect, and there is no one better than Eames when it comes to forgery,” Dom protested, compelled to defend his friends.

  
  


“Forgery being the technical name for impersonation within a dream?” Mr Keele inquired, uncertainty flickering on his face “If I’m not mistaken.”

  
  


“That is precisely what it is,” Eames replied “Though I generally use it in both senses of the word. I do a marvellous Renoir, you know.”

  
  


“I’m sure.” Keele was unimpressed “Professor Miles. You’ve been in this from the start. Have you ever considered applying to something more your level, leaving the pure architecture behind, coming to join us here at Rever, I mean? We can talk salary privately, if you like. You, Mr. Cobb...and _Arthur_.”

  
  


The way he spoke the name was suspicious, distrustful. Possibly because, like Eames, it was the only name Arthur was known by, his professional alias, a handle. In the extraction world, Arthur’s involvement usually connoted reliability. If he’d been involved in the logistics of a job, chances were that job would go well, and if there was a mistake, it would be unforeseen circumstances, like Mal, or a high-speed freight train tearing its way through the city. Unfortunately, the price of his anonymity was suspicion from people that mattered. People like this liked to know who they were dealing with. A nom-de-plume was rarely reassuring.

  
  


“ _If_ you aren’t too busy with Saito’s amateur problems…” Kincaid smiled sweetly “You’re so much better than this. You can be here, at the forefront of medical development. You can contribute to the future of mankind in a better way than whatever you do for that selfish git.”

  
  


“I’ll...uh, we’ll need to discuss this, but I should think it’d be fine.” Dom shrugged, downplaying his interest, feigning curious professional interest, but nothing more. Nothing _personal._ “Our schedule’s clear right now, right Arthur?”

  
  


Arthur nodded “I think so.”

  
  


“Would you care to step into the office and talk further?” Mr Keel suggested, and the three lucky few shared a glance, shrugged, emptied their champagne glasses, placing them on a table to the side, and followed him. Their new ‘employer’. Their target.

  
  


Their _mission._

  
  


-

  
  


So. This was nice.

  
  


It really was. Now he didn’t have to do all the heavy lifting and could leave the basic work to those new and improved shiny deluxe team, while he sat back and took five minutes to figure out how on earth he could wing this one so that Dream of the sodding Endless would give him a nightmare-free life for the rest of his days.

  
  


Probably wasn’t meant to be. Probably it was written, somewhere all high and mighty and authoritative, that John Constantine had to have a deep, angst death and pain sort of life. And it was true his nightmares had been indicators of disturbances in the flow of synchronicity before now, underlying problems the universe decided to make him fix. They _had_ been minorly useful. Still, you didn’t exactly _want_ to be waking up screaming every night, it wasn’t much fun. Really put a dampener on the whole sleep thing other people seemed so fond of.

  
  


And that was the issue. Rever were removing poor bastards from dreams entirely. Which, while he could understand it being a sympathetic cause, there was something inherently wrong about it. Raising the question; why was it so obviously wrong for a bunch of corporate tossers to meddle with people’s heads, but not for an ancient immortal-ish being? Where did you draw the line? It was a difficult one, and honestly, if he wasn’t being paid, and if there wasn’t a kid involved, he would leave it for said almighty wankstain to clean up. But no, Rever had to play it that way, didn’t they? Their type always did. No sense of self-preservation, honestly.

  
  


There was also the minor matter of the mysterious-as-fuck supernatural entity pulling the strings, which was where the case became clear-cut and he was compelled to intervene.

  
  


Why did this happen every time?

  
  


Because? Reasons?

  
  


None. Sod all. It was just because someone up there liked messing with him, jerking him about like a puppet; and rule number one - nobody fucks around with John Constantine. Since the matter was not just some uppity cunts getting ideas about meddling with dreams, there was a out-and-out underhanded war beginning, it fell into the broad spectrum of his expertise.

  
  


Still. He’d leave as much of the legwork to the happy-go-lucky dream brigade, and piggyback on their hard-work to get the results he needed. So long as it ended happily, they wouldn’t mind, would they?

  
  


Of course, when had it ever ended happily?

He could count those rare occurrences on one hand; if that hand was a closed fist, that is. At some point during the postscript, just as the epilogue was finishing its dues, someone would cock it all up and that would be the end of his jolly little holiday, replaced instead by dead friends and uncalled for magic.

  
  


What did he know so far?

  
  


_Number one: a fifteen-year old, Jack Naseby, had been suffering from severe nightmares (not the only one) and his dear old dad, being reasonably well-off thanks to yours truly’s stolen cash, paid for him to be treated in a private sleep clinic. Almost serves him right for what happened next. Almost, but not quite._

  
  


_Two: said kid comes back in a coma, unable to sleep at all. Which, technically, fulfils the brief given only now he isn’t talking. Just staring at the wall and watching paint dry. Dad gets worried, remembers that weirdo he used to hang out with and occasionally shag (though he mentions none of this to his wife Doreen), and calls him up with the promise of full repayment. Refuses to pay interest, tight bastard._

  
  


_Three: why would a sleep clinic be marketing something so blatantly unsuccessful? How were they spinning that one? Apparently Jack was an outlier and should not be considered an example of their real work. Which is fucking terrifying on a number of levels. What, then, is their real work? They answer in psychobabble nobody can understand, meaningless bullshit you can’t help but tune out to. That’s not suspicious at all._

  
  


_Four: their premises reek of old magic. Makes sense. What else would be interested in something so bloody boring? Dream-lord can’t intervene because there are ‘Rules’, or some shit, sends some extractors in instead. They know bugger all about the supernatural, with the exception of the academic type. But they’re exactly the type of people Rever wants on its books. They can get in with very little risk to themselves. Can probably deal with it themselves._

  
  


And finally

  
  


_Five: there is definitely enough in that ponce’s wallet to pay for drinks tonight._

  
  


Chas’d be pleased.

  
  


Speaking of…

  
  


“Oi, Constantine you wanker, I’m parked over here!”

  
  


There he was. Putting his hands in his coat pockets, the notorious figure of probable impending doom headed for the taxi and got into the back seat.  His friend snorted, evidently put out at having to wait around outside some posh get-together while Constantine was definitely up to something shady.  Chas was annoyed because once again, he was left ferrying John around when he could be watching the footie or doing basically anything else. It was his night off-

  
  


“For fuck’s sake, my soddin’ night off! I could be watchin’ the footie! Come on, I thought we were mates.”

  
  


Constantine smiled a slow, lazy grin “Relax, old son. I just had a nice little chat with a bloke who didn’t take good enough care of his cash,” With a magician’s flair, he produced the leather wallet, with the eighty, ninety, one hundred quid inside it. “See? Now: fancy a drink?”

  
  


Chas laughed “I s’pose. They’ll probably have the match on anyway. Been awhile since you came out for a pint, what with all...” the driver became uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. Memories he’d rather not remember were clearly going through the process of being, well, _remembered_. Bad times. Chaos. The manipulative machinations of the man in the back seat. Swathes upon swathes of dead friends and demons. “Y’know, that weird shit you-” he cut off, narrowing his eyebrows suspiciously. “This is part of that, ain’t it? You didn’t go to that party to nick some poor bugger’s dosh, you went coz you’re in the middle of one of your fuckin’ god knows whats, ain’t yer?”

  
  


Reluctantly, Constantine nodded, put out by how obvious the whole thing was, really. “Alright, Chas, you got me, top marks. Congratufuckinglations.”

  
  


“Don’t you fuckin’ patronise me!” Chas snapped “I know what yer like, Constantine. Leave me the fuck out of it.”

  
  


Silence. Then, mustering up a wicked grin, John leaned into the front of the cab and lit a cigarette “We still on for that drink then?”

  
  


“‘ey, there’s a no smokin’ rule in these things, I’m gonna get it in the-” Chas rolled his eyes. It was hopeless to argue “Course we are.”

  
  


John was, actually, relieved. His friendship with Chas had been strained, disintegrating to animosity at times, but it had, against all probabilities, lasted. Having been friends for so long, going all the way back to before Newcastle, underneath the obnoxious banter, there was a deep respect which, while frequently frayed and scornful, did actually exist on occasion. Only on occasion, mind. Most of the time it was nothing more than memories and alcohol. They had very little actually in common. But they _were_ friends after all. Best mates.

  
  


They said you chose your friends. That wasn’t quite true. Life sort of chose them for you. You took a turn on the synchronicity highway and found yourself lodging with that bloke from the pub, and his mental mum, and a bloody monkey (another story). And then you were friends.

  
  


And then that was that.

  
  


“So? What is it this time?” Chas said, starting the cab up quickly “Demons? Is it-” he sounded frightened. Of course he was. There were old memories, bad memories, memories of what happened when John Constantine involved himself with Hell. _I know, mate_ the magician thought _Same._

  
  


“No.” Chas visibly relaxed “Just some nasty stuck up twats pissing about removing people’s dreams.” He didn’t mention the supernatural force behind it all. For all he knew, it might be demons, but there was no need to go upsetting Chas about it, was there now?

  
  


After all, he didn’t want to go losing his one and only living friend.

  
  


_Right. Time to go and get pissed._

  
  


-

  
  


_You’re dreaming._

  
  


_Dreams are the most valuable things for humanity, truly golden pockets of unreality self-contained in sleep. They are a golden honey-trap, in which it is easy to become lost. That is why, like all the Endless save Death and Destiny, Dream cannot be fully trusted._

  
  


_The Dreaming is not a safe place._

  
  


_One can excuse Rever, perhaps, for removing people from it. Protecting them. Perhaps it is a precursor to something else._

  
  


_If you can prevent someone from entering the Dreaming, you can prevent them from entering the Sunless Lands, so you can halt death. Removing people from the Dreaming as prototype, as experiment. Cut them off from Dream._

  
  


_Cut them off from Death._

  
  


_Interestingly, a group of people searching for immortality attempted to capture Death, once._

  
  


_Instead, they got Dream. Fortunately. A lucky escape indeed. So if Death knew_ _she_ _was involved, that people were messing with her little brother on_ _her_ _account…_

  
  


_They might be able to do it, to keep her at bay._

  
  


_Until the light dies._

_Until they go into the Sunless Lands._

  
  


_ You  _ _are dreaming._ _ You  _ _are alive._

  
  


_ Until the light dies.  _

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Dom, Arthur and Professor Miles investigate Rever, Eames and Ariadne explore London, heading for a casino Eames got kicked out of 'this one time'. Stupid mistakes are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is later than I estimated. There's a couple more chapters left, we're nearing an end. I hope you enjoy

**Chapter 9**

  
  


High-tech and super-secret though Rever was, it was something of a surprise to find out they operated out of a tiny, tiny clinic just outside of London, a quiet, almost suburban haven. Quiet, inconspicuous, entirely incongruous with the lab’s interior, which was a chill, white-walled, surgical sort of purgatory. Long corridors stretched out before them; well, one long corridor anyway, the building was not very big, but of course it was an evil lab ergo needed at least one corridor, to run along when there was some sort of mishap.

  
  


A few days had passed since the party and they’d got a call to come to Rever. Ariadne and Eames were not invited, and Eames had decided to give Ariadne a tour of London. Probably not a good idea, but there wasn’t really time to argue.

  
  


Inspecting the equipment, it didn’t seem like anything was amiss. Arthur was actually quite delighted at how up-to-date everything was, noting pointedly it was far better than what you could get hold of when your colleague was on the run, leaving you unable to stay in one place for longer than it took to execute a job and get out. Professor Miles had been instantly whisked away and was talking excitedly with some young doctors who were gushing and squeeing over him, their personal icon as one of the founders of early extraction.

  
  


Extraction, the process of stealing thoughts and secrets from inside the head of another. Taken to the nth degree here, the Rever technicians extracting _all_ dreams. But why? After a few evasions on the doctor’s part, Dom managed to get Kincaid aside and ask her what the function of this place was.

  
  


“Have you ever had a nightmare?” The woman laughed “No, don’t answer that. You have. Now. As an extractor, you have inoculated your mind against dreams through excessive exposure; the only dreams you can enter are those of your own, external creation, correct?”

  
  


Theoretically and technically, yes. In practise, there was a very real Sandman who could at any point decide to bring you a dream, recruit you to go and fight whoever _this_ was at Rever, and jettison you back into the Waking World. Did Kincaid know about Dream? How much did she know? This entity that was involved - did she have anything to do with it? How deep did this go?

  
  


Ignoring his silence, Dr Kincaid continued “You are, I have to say, lucky. Now when you dream, you know it is a ploy by other extractors to get inside your head, you can lucid dream yourself out of there. Other people are not so lucky. While most of them will never be targets for extractors, they also have no way out when the nightmares come calling. Their mental state disintegrates and more adverse effects come to pass. I’ve seen it happen. Here at Rever, only in extreme cases so far, and only for treatment, we remove dreams, using similar technology to extraction, excessive exposure to dreams immunising them against further infection. So far, it’s been almost entirely successful, with a few isolated cases we have worked to rectify. It’s a miracle. And will be more so.” Kincaid turned and smiled sweetly “Tell me, Mr. Cobb, do you believe the Dreaming is a place? You know more about it than we, after all, having spent _years on end down there_ ,” the doctor’s voice was scornful “So. Do you believe it’s a place, or that you were lost in your own heads? And if it is a place, would the same apply to other locales, like, I don’t know, death? Just a thought.” Kincaid laughed and waved an uninterested hand “Disregard it completely.”

  
  


“There’s certainly a lot of theories about the origin of dreams…” Dom managed. “My wife, Mal, she was always intrigued by the mythos surrounding it. I think the only way to properly understand it is through first hand investigation.”

  
  


“Then we are in agreement!” Kincaid clapped in excitement “That’s precisely what we want to know here. I mean, yeah, treat the sick, right, but how do we advance humanity? Through what we don’t understand. Forces beyond our knowledge, things that we fear. We conquer that fear. It’s actually hard to explain,” The normally eloquent woman shrugged, seeming a little flustered. “We protect the vulnerable, but advance ourselves in the same stroke. It’s imperative we take control of our own dreams, so nobody else can.”

  
  


It was insane, that’s what it was. But also genius. Like extraction had been at the time it was suggested. Progress. And Dom realised how deep Kincaid was, how much she knew. ‘Take control of our own dreams’, she’d said, ‘so nobody else can’, so the Lord of Dreams couldn’t. And advance further - if the Dreaming was a place, death might be too...if they could remove  people from dreams, could they- no, not even Dr Kincaid was that out there. Or was she? What was Rever’s plan?

  
  


Was that it? Was that Rever’s plan? As an extractor, Dom had long since learned to read between the lines, you needed to work on subtext and intuition, God Mal had been so much better at it than him, but now he was working with what he had and his instincts told  him- if they _were_ working on something involving death- _Mal_...

  
  


“Cobb-” Arthur interrupted his thoughts. “They want us to test out their extraction gear. It looks a hell of a lot better than what we’ve got. We should - are you listening to me? We need to test this out, even if it’s just so we can make improvements to our own stuff…are you okay?”

  
  


“What? Yeah. Fine.” Dom looked to Dr Kincaid and shrugged “Can we have a look?”

  
  


Kincaid smiled (she did that too much, definitely) “Of course. What else would we bring you here for? We need your expertise to investigate a particular patient. We need to see if our process leaves people open to extraction or not. If so, then the entire enterprise has been for naught.”

  
  


The enterprise, yes, conquering the final frontier; not space, rather, but death. Was that even possible?

  
  


And if it was…

  
  


_Mal._

If going into death without dying could become possible through Rever’s investigations, then what about Mal?

  
  


-

  
  


“Ah yes, and here we have the obligatory group of lost Japanese tourists, you will see similar groups wandering all around this fair city…”

  
  


“Eames.”

  
  


“And on your left is a building. I’m sure you’ll like that, what with being an architect, personally I think it looks hideous but you know better...”

  
  


“Eames.”

  
  


“And look, it’s a bus. It’s red. How nice.”

  
  


Ariadne sighed deeply “You don’t actually know anything about London, do you?”

  
  


The forger looked put out “I’ll have you know I’ve been here many, many times before, and I have never found a city I hate more. I did actually grow up around here but that was a long time ago and I can’t be expected to remember everything. Besides, I had an odd childhood, what with-” Eames cut off, as if admitting that much was too much.

  
  


That was the difference between him and Arthur, Ariadne realised. Eames made a show out of being secretive, refusing to own up to anything and sending the conversation onto ever-spiralling tangents. On the other hand, Arthur just quietly never said much about himself. The topic never came up. Arthur was too professional for Ariadne ask about his personal life, if he even had one. When they had kissed that one time in the dream, it had been not exactly detached, and Ariadne maintained a strong friendship and good working relationship with Arthur, but it had been part of the job, nothing more, nothing less. While Arthur did clearly care, he was devoted to his work more than anything else. Which was probably why Eames liked sabotaging him so much - it ruined the professional veneer, it annoyed Arthur, it _humanised_ him.

  
  


“Why can’t we just go to one of the tourist spots?”

  
  


Eames raised his eyebrows “Really? You want to visit one of those overpriced, overrated, overcrowded eyesores? Well, if that’s really what you want, but don’t expect me to come with you. No, I will be finding myself a casino and bunking down until Cobb and co get back. Unless, of course, you feel like coming with,”

  
  


What harm could it do? Ariadne shrugged and followed Eames as they got a taxi to some place Eames said he’d been once before, and that they ‘probably didn’t remember him so it’d be fine’. _Please tell me these are not going to be famous last words._ The cab driver could barely hold in his amusement at that and gave a snort of disbelief.

  
  


“‘eard that one before,” he said, in a strong London accent “Never ends well. Normally ends with us gettin’ kicked out coz of summink me mate John did ages back. ‘e’s banned from all the bookies, casinos and the like round ‘ere, too spooky, an’ I’m not makin’ that up. Every time he’s like ‘nah, it’ll be right Chas, no way they’ll remember me’ and every bloody time it ends with ‘im startin’ a fight and gettin’ us thrown out, coz he just has to be an argumentative bastard. Of course they bloody remember ‘im, ‘e’s been wearing the same coat since the 80s an’ ‘e’s a mouthy Scouse gobshite.”

  
  


There was that word again, that unfamiliar description. ‘Scouse’. What had Eames called Constantine? A ‘Scouser’ (whatever that meant)? The coat. Mouthy - definitely. ‘Gobshite’...if she had to hazard a guess as to what _that_ meant, the definition would fall once again under the nebulous description of John Constantine. It could be a coincidence. But all those traits, adding up to a spooky, Scouse bastard in a recognisable coat, who made his living as a con artist…

  
  


Eames knew it too. “This wouldn’t happen to be John...Constantine, would it?” To Ariadne he whispered: “Is there anyone who _doesn’t_ know him?”

  
  


“Why?” the cabbie asked, suspiciously.

  
  


“We...uh, met him the other day,” Ariadne tried to sound cheerful “He’s... _is_ he helping us?” she turned to Eames “He wasn’t very clear. Is he actually helping us or what?”

  
  


The cabbie was quiet for a moment “You do know ‘im then. Fair enough. We go back.”

  
  


“Weird, us bumping into you now,” Eames remarked offhandedly. “Bloody weird.”

  
  


The cabbie shrugged “Constantine’s got this theory about coincidences, ‘e tried to tell me it once. I dunno, most of it went over me ‘ead, but it’s called synchro- synchronicity, right, an’ you just follow where it takes you and it leads you to all kinds of weird shit. Sometimes you don’t even know that’s what you’re doin’, it just ‘appens, like that. ‘e don’t half talk crap, but maybe that’s it. Maybe it was that synchronicity thing that brung you this way. I dunno. You’d ‘ave to ask ‘im. ‘e’s the expert.”

  
  


“Well that expert stole my wallet.” Eames said, testily.

  
  


Chas, the cabbie, snickered slightly “So you’re the bloke who paid for drinks last night. Sorry. You live and learn around John, y’do, you live and learn. Or you don’t.” He said bluntly, taking another turn, then pulled over outside the nearby casino “This is where you wanted, right?”

  
  


“Yeah, yeah,” the forger was annoyed “Thank you kindly. If you do hear from your interesting friend, tell him if he wants to compare notes, he should call us.” Eames passed his card to the cabbie along with, at Ariadne’s insistence, a more than generous tip. He was a bit annoyed about that; complaining after he’d left that he’d practically tipped the man once already, having literally paid for drinks last night. But as Ariadne pointed out, better to be on good terms with a friend of Mr Constantine than bad.

  
  


Far better indeed.

  
  


-

  
  


_People do stupid things. All the time. It’s a constant, permanently looping, Möbius strip, eternal. It festers, breeds, continues. On, on, on. A forger with a bad reputation in gambling circuits walks into a casino. A cab driver who, even now, is still going to meet his dangerous friend for drinks, despite everything that has passed between them, despite the deaths that follow in this friend’s destructive wake. A doctor who has worked so hard to eliminate all traces of the Dreaming in someone unwittingly invites extractors to explore the person’s mind, to open a conduit._

  
  


_In the Dreaming, the being that was once Daniel Hall stirs, a paper-white figure that looks more like a cut-out, except for the emerald gleaming on his chest, except for those eyes..._

  
  


_In the Waking World, another being stirs. Maybe it’s the thing running Rever, maybe it’s aimless foreshadowing. But it stirs, listless, because it knows Doctor Kincaid is making a mistake, and that this mistake could have huge ramifications for the overall plan._

  
  


_People do stupid things._

  
  


_All the time._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's a bit odd, it jumps from HOLY SHIT moments to the mundane, but I promise you it's all relevant. It's NOT aimless foreshadowing. Next chapter will be a biggie, I hope. Thank you so much for reading, and if it's not too much trouble do leave a comments. Thanks guys


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dom, Arthur and Miles come face to face with the entity that has been threatening the Dreaming, meanwhile, about half an hour before, Ariadne and Eames come face to face with John Constantine. Again. Time is a little bit weird, but stories are told in the order they need to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure I can justify the timey-wimeyness of this chapter, but WHATEVER. It sort of needed to happen. I guess there's an OC in here, but they're not really a typically sentient character so it's a bit...odd. I hope this isn't too off-putting. Happy new year, by the way.

**Chapter 10**

The Dreamscape of anonymous Patient 4-07 was entirely empty, of course, so they had needed to set up an impromptu basic world, a generic, simple design. The patient had been very co-operative and interested in the process; it didn’t take long to figure they were in the pocket of Rever’s parent company Neuroxx, occupying a minor position in the Advertising department, not a particularly well-paid job by any stretch of the imagination. The money this person was undoubtedly receiving was their incentive; offer someone enough, and they would sell you not only their dreams but their soul. Perhaps the two went hand in hand, perhaps not, perhaps that was superstitious nonsense. What Dom knew was that you could hardly dismiss every supernatural theory after meeting Dream incarnate. Business became so much more complicated than it used to be. It used to be science and lies, lies and science. Science. It was almost irrelevant now. The world was full of magic and it could be literally anywhere.

  
  


What he wouldn’t give for John Constantine’s (preferably censored) occult opinion on this. That man knew way more than he was letting on, that was damn certain.

  
  


“It won’t hurt?” the patient asked “Only you know the removal process did hurt a little.” Doctor Kincaid narrowed her eyes, and the patient shifted notably and rephrased. “I mean, it gave me a bit of a migraine, I get migraines you know? From all the staring at a computer, not good for your eyes. My doctor - Neuroxx has a private health plan, you know, I really recommend it none of that NHS waiting around, and you get all the latest treatments - anyway, my doctor referred me to Rever for a clinical trial. It’s been wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. And I don’t normally like doctors a lot, they make me uncomfortable, you know but this has been absolutely-”

  
  


Unless the incessant chatter was a side-effect - which it well might have been - this person was plausibly healthy. If the talking was symptomatic, Neuroxx, being the employers, could insist that _oh yes of course so-and-so talks non-stop, they’ve always been like that, bloody annoying isn’t it?_ Who wouldn’t buy that story? Why would talking be a symptom, except in a case where other patients had _stopped_ , other patients were wide awake and comatose? It seemed to Dom the talking had to mean something, if only that the sooner they sedated Patient 4-07 the better.

  
  


Miles and Arthur certainly agreed. So did Doctor Kincaid, who visibly relaxed when the patient had been silenced, unable to spew forth more indiscretions. While Arthur and Dom lay back in the specially provided chairs which had been designed for this very purpose, a kick timed in to go off in about an hour’s time.

  
  


“Good luck!” Doctor Kincaid chirped cheerfully “May the Force be with you, and all that.”

  
  


Her ever-smiling face disappeared from view, blurring to blackness and vanishing altogether, replaced by Bland Dreamscape #37, part of a general set that was actually sold commercially, modelled on the Secret Garden thus usually marketed to children. Miles had designed it, a long time ago. When Mal was a child, he used to read her that story, and had made the dream for her as an experiment. According to the way he told it, Mal had woken up, wrinkled her nose, and complained it wasn’t realistic enough and insisted he change some of the colours to make them ‘better’. As a result, there were purple trees and rainbow roses. Mal had hated that story, because she was such a practical woman and disliked being reminded that once, she had been a child, a child who thought pink grass was a sensible idea. Aside from those occasional artistic choices, the dream was perfectly normal, if a little simplistic. None of the textures were perfect, the rose petals felt synthesised, the thorns had been left out altogether. It wasn’t as if you’d notice these flaws, not unless you’d encountered a proper extraction, but to Dom it seemed woefully crude and rushed. They were using it instead as a real, properly made dream because this wasn’t a situation where they needed anything serious. This was a study, and while Rever had its own extractors, they wanted the prestige that came with having consulted the best, less biased, outside eyes scrutinising their handiwork.

  
  


And what masterful handiwork it had been.

  
  


“We’re going to the Garden, right?” Arthur said, checking. “Any secrets will have been hidden in there, though I doubt there’s anything that guy didn’t tell us, aside from his name and it’s a miracle we didn’t get that out of him. Remind me not to complain next time Eames starts babbling.”

  
  


“Noted.”

  
  


“Where is he?” Arthur asked, suddenly concerned. For a moment, Dom thought he meant Eames then remembered their patient. “He should be around here, right? This one’s location-specific, isn’t it? You can’t get inside the house.”

  
  


“Are you sure?” Dom asked. “I couldn’t dream anymore, then I did. There was no Sandman, then there was. The rules as they are don’t exist anymore, Arthur. You have to move forward, to adapt. Or you’ll drown in the ocean of Limbo.”

  
  


They looked up at what should have been the facade of an English country house, a cardboard cut-out, a shadow. It looked pretty and dollhouse-esque enough, but the rooms were unbuilt, and when you opened the doors and windows, you found painted entrances you couldn’t get inside.. You weren’t supposed to be able to get inside the house. Actually, there was an inhibitor on it; you set off walking toward the house, you found yourself walking away, and automatically forgot ever trying to enter the house. Not even lucid dreaming could create an entrance for you. If you could, Dom supposed the mind would fill and furnish those rooms by itself. More sinister still was the idea that your subconscious projections were wandering around in silence in that empty house. It wasn’t a real house.

  
  


The door opened.

  
  


Directly behind it was the body of anonymous patient 4.07, blood trickling from his mouth in a slow, crimson line. He was dead. Around them, the dream began to shake and decay, unstable for a few moments until it righted itself, stabilising. For a moment Dom wondered how that had happened when he saw, of course, the arctic, snowy white figure of Dream stood further down a hallway that hadn’t existed until now. He smiled faintly, and put a finger to his lips in a shushing motion, and in that instant, the two extractors woke up to find anonymous patient 4.07 lying in a pool of his own blood, pouring from his ears, nose and mouth. Miles was nowhere to be seen.

  
  


Doctor Kincaid was screaming from somewhere very far away.

  
  


“You said!” she shrieked “You said we could defeat Death together!”

 _ **yes well lieddddd**_ the voice was in one sense inaudible, it was not made of vibrations through the air. It was something you felt, crawling over your skin and cutting you to the bone, raw and painful, echoing and soundless. Arthur looked at Cobb, confused. He heard it too. _**there is a fundamental difference between dream and death which if you were less stupid would have noticed lieddd to get you to do work don’t you understand dr you’ve been outplayed**_

  
  


_**all wanted were the dreams** _

  
  


“I don’t get it. What do you mean?” Kincaid asked, and the figure, the figure in the long brown leather coat and broad-brimmed hat shrugged.

  
  


_**you subsist on a diet of flesh of plant or animal all of it flesh and you consume the solid matter and digest it in your visceral insides**_ _ **we**_ _**live on the ephemeral on your fantasies and hopes and funnily enough dreams digest dreams**_

  
  


_**the problem arises when you factor the endless into the equation the lord of dreams does not take kindly to others siphoning off his realm skimming the cream off the top and so you cut away the canker you take people out of the dreaming and drink them and if you play your cards right he legally cannot come and get you because you stupid there are rules** _

  
  


The figure turned, tilting its head to face Dom and Arthur. It was a tall shape, wrapped up in its dark brown coat and swathed in...fishing nets? The hat was pulled low over its face, though you could see the semblance of a smile arcing out from below the brim. With one hand, it pointed at the two extractors, one long finger extended, what looked like a fishing hook curving from where the nail should have been.

  
  


_**bringing these two petty thieves in you made an opening a gateway to the dreaming he could have entered he could have**_ _ **seen**_ _**he could have reason according to the rules to come and vivisect certain parties present not that he does much vivisecting but deconstruction now...he could**_ _ **deconstruct**_

  
  


_**and so simple logic follow the rationality the obvious thing to do is take his pawns his petty thieves** _ _ **you** _ _**and conduct the same per se capishe comprende you see** _ _ **deconstruct you** _

  
  


“Jesus Christ,” Arthur muttered “It’s insane.”

  
  


“Yeah. And it’s going to kill us. BY VIVISECTION,” Cobb muttered. “This is really not a good job. Does not pay well enough.”

  
  


“We aren’t getting paid at all, we’re just being graciously allowed to carry on with extraction, which on balance probably isn’t worth it.”

  
  


“Exactly.”

  
  


“Unless you count the fee given by Neuroxx to come here and test their shit out, we’ve received nothing for this job whatsoever.”

  
  


“Was not worth it.”

  
  


“I know.”

  
  


“I’m sorry, Arthur. This was my fault. I dragged us into this, this is my mess. I’m sorry. If we hadn’t met-”

  
  


“I’d be dead already, and so would you,” Arthur scoffed. “We’ve saved each others lives so many times it has to count for something-”

  
  


There was a sudden sound behind them, and the creature, the aptly named Dreamcatcher halted in its progression and turned, slowly to regard John Constantine with an icy look. There was an arcane dagger sticking out of its back.

  
  


“Just once, that is goin’ ta work,” the occultist muttered. Behind him, Eames and Ariadne stared in horror at the thing coming towards _them_ now.

  
  


“Oh. Bugger. Well, Arthur darling, it’s been nice knowing you,” Eames said, putting on a brave face. “I look forward to seeing you in whatever afterlife we end up in.”

  
  


“Likewise, Mr Eames,” Arthur returned the expression grimly, and closed his eyes. Cobb placed a reassuring hand on his friend and colleague’s shoulder and waited for it all to come to an end.

  
  


He wondered how Constantine and Ariadne and Eames came to be here.

  
  


The answer, of course, was synchronicity.

  
  


-

 

**Somewhat earlier in the sequence of events that may be loosely termed ‘causality’**

  
  


The answer, of course, was synchronicity, but then again it always bloody was, wasn’t it?  You put one step out of line and a whole row of dominos went toppling over one by one. Sometimes you didn’t know it would happen until you got in the way of something you might have started weeks ago with an offhand comment or a badly timed joke, and then all of a sudden you were on the run from something that was not your fault but was now your responsibility. That bastard of a butterfly flapped its wings and shit rained down in diarrhoeic torrents.

  
  


Normally, he didn’t go to casinos. They always recognised him. It was unfortunate like that, but he had a reputation. There was always a downside to everything.

  
  


This time though, as he was walking past, thinking of all the easy marks in there, he felt something, a pull. Something was going on in there. He needed to go in. It was going to be important, for reasons as yet unknown. Reluctantly, he discarded his freshly lit cigarette and headed inside, wiping his feet on the mat while swiftly glancing around and wondering where his often dangerous and less than endearing  (if nearly always correct) instincts wanting him to go. Closing his eyes, he took a few steps forward, following the synchronicity flow to where he was supposed to be. Then, cautiously, he took a left turn, and crashed full on into a complete stranger.

  
  


Which apparently was supposed to happen.

  
  


Someone upstairs was laughing at him and he didn’t much like that.

  
  


“Excuse - _you_!” the voice was familiar enough and John realised it wasn’t a stranger after all. It was that ponce from the other evening, whose wallet he had _acquired_. “What the bloody hell do you want?”

  
  


Great. Nice to see some of them were still speaking in generic cliches. _Gotta keep those Americans happy, right, can’t have ‘em discovering anythin’ north of Watford can we now?_

  
  


The pretty girl with him rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry about him. He’s still mad about the wallet. Normally it’s him doing that to everyone else, he hates being outsmarted.”

  
  


“‘s not hard, luv, that prick couldn’t outsmart his way out of a paper bag.” John smiled winningly. The girl snickered, while her tosser in tow looked a little offended.

  
  


“I’m right here. Not sure if you noticed that or if you were too busy being a self-absorbed git.”

  
  


“Nah mate, I have all my self-absorbed git sessions booked for a Wednesday. That way I have room for my main wallowing-in-self-pity party later in the week.”

  
  


“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” the man - Eames? Something arsey anyway - looked irritated. “This is why nobody likes you.”

  
  


“That and it’s usually fatal.” John pointed out, smirking.

  
  


“See what it’s like talking to you now?” the girl elbowed her companion. “See? And never bitch at Arthur again because now you understand how we all feel. Do you have any leads on the case?”

  
  


Did he have any _leads_? What was this, a fucking police procedural? What was that depressing as fuck one he’d caught a couple of times, the Mentalist? Yeah, that. Was that it? “You mind if we take this outside, luv? The no smoking rules in here are doin’ me fuckin’ head in. Load of bollocks, innit?”

  
  


They headed outside, and thank _fuck_ he was able to light one up at last. Waste of good cigarettes, instinct was sometimes. Of course, it was London, so there were still rules about where you could and couldn’t smoke that nobody could or was expected to understand, but who gave a rat’s arse?

  
  


“Would you like to tell us what you’re doing here, then?” Eames folded his arms and glared at John. Something told the magician that somebody was still upset about the whole wallet-stealing thing. Oh well. He’d get over it eventually.

  
  


“Just wandering.” John shrugged.  “Putting one foot in front of the other and seeing where it takes me. Wound up here. Sort of wish I hadn’t, but it’s not about what we want, is it? It’s just the game innit? Hand we’re dealt. You work wi’ what you have and see where you end up, and sometimes it even ends without all your mates dyin’ on you. Sometimes. I’d have been dead a long time ago if it weren’t for my instinct, and don’t say that’d be an improvement.”

  
  


“Is this about synchronicity?” the girl asked, cautiously. He started with shock. Very few people used that word as it stood, even less used it in the context he did. She shifted. “We just ran into a taxi driver who knew you and said you had some theory about coincidences.”

  
  


“Chas?” John laughed “Surprised he remembered that one, he was pissed out of his head when I mentioned it. Got to give the man credit, he’s not as thick as he would’ve been without my handy little bad influence over his shoulder. Synchronicity. For a start, it’s not really my theory, luv. Some psychobabble shit, right, but applicable to magic. Happens to everyone, right, it’s fucking everywhere, it’s the fucking Force, like, only not half so useful and more likely to backfire on you. Everyone interacts with synchronicity, everything. You, me, that sodding hypothetical butterfly everyone’s obsessed with dunno why I keep mentioning that, s’pose it works as an analogy. Anyway, most people are carried along by the flow and shit just happens to them the way it happens. Not me. I get to fuck around with synchronicity. I can see where it’s leading, put links together, influence it. ‘s why I’m banned from all the bookies, an’ most of the casinos. Not this one apparently. So we ended up here. And, on another note, I _think_ I know what’s causing the dream problems.” The two idiots exchanged an amazed look. “Yeah, yeah, congratulate me later. Where’s the tosser who actually knows what he’s doing?”

  
  


“Cobb? Knows what he’s doing is a bit of a stretch.” Eames muttered. “He’s at Rever now with his new besties getting along famously.”

  
  


John’s face fell. “Shit. We have to go there now. They have no idea what they’re dealing with.”

  
  


“And you do?” the girl asked skeptically. “I’m sorry, didn’t you just say earlier that people tend to die around you? Why should we trust your judgement?”

  
  


“Because _I’m_ still alive.” Taking a drag from his cigarette, John mustered up his most convincing grin. “And so is Chas. Not everyone I’ve ever met is in a wooden box. A significant many, definitely, but not quite everyone. On the topic of Chas, I’m going to call him now. We’re going to need a lift, and he owes me one.” _And has done for some time, you manipulative bastard._

  
  


He called Chas on the girl - Ariadne, her name was, he remembered now - on her phone, and thankfully he was just around the corner, having only dropped the unlikely duo off at the casino a few minutes ago anyway. It was a quiet day, apparently.

  
  


Chas arrived and was surprised to see John with Ariadne and Eames, but not overly so. As he drove, as quickly as he could be persuaded to, his friend began describing what they were facing.

  
  


“It’s not a myth, not really. I’ve found only one mention of it, and I was lucky to get that. Story goes there’s a guy up in Scotland, trying to sell his weird as fuck house. There’s a weird carving in the attic, makes everyone feel ill at ease and the thing it’s of is seen, standing on the cliffs at the edge of the island. Anyway, the old man dies, and the house is left abandoned, the only building on this particular island. They even stop running ferries to it because a bunch of Yank tourists drowned. Then, a few months back, there’s a light from the island. Nobody living there, nothing. But every night, the lighthouse is lit and in the end they send a team to investigate.”

  
  


“Aaaaand none of them return?” Eames finished.

  
  


“Wrong. They come back. With a quiet bugger, doesn’t speak at all, and you know what else is odd about him - or, should I say, it?” The taxi was silent. “It has no face. It’s got fishhooks on its hands. It matches the carving from the house to the letter. So it comes south. It consumes dreams on the way, but it’s beaten back by his Lordship. So it finds a way to get around him, using extraction science. It’s a parasite. A tick, feeding on the unconscious mind. A leech. I got all this from the estate agent, by the way, they were rejected from Rever - they were having recurring nightmares about this thing. I saw a photo of the carving, and you know the funny thing about it?” Wordlessly, everyone shook their heads. “The title. It’s called the Dreamcatcher. And that’s what it does. If it was inside the Dreaming, Mr Sandman could deal with it, but there are Rules and the Dreamcatcher knows this. It hides behind Rever. It lies. It steals. And, ultimately, it’ll kill.”

  
  


The cab fell into stunned silence. Taking a drag from his cigarette, John smiled.

  
  


“Well? You wanna step on it Chas, or what?”

  
  


His friend gulped nervously and obliged.

  
  


-

  
  


_And so the group arrives at Rever, a rightfully frightened Chas Chandler waiting outside with the understanding that John Constantine will  get out safely, because he always does. The three enterthe room, Constantine stabsthe Dreamcatcher, drawing its vicious, hungry attention to them._

  
  


“ _Just once, that is goin’ ta work,” Constantine mutters. Eames, meanwhile, is wondering whether John Constantine always carried esoteric weaponry around with him. Actually he had been anticipating the encounter, but it only served to add to the myth surrounding the man._

  
  


“ _Oh. Bugger. Well, Arthur darling, it’s been nice knowing you,” Eames says, smiling grimly. “I look forward to seeing you in whatever afterlife we end up in.”_

  
  


“ _Likewise, Mr Eames,” Arthur replies, and there is much left unsaid in what could be these final words. Eyes close, waiting for an ending. The soft footsteps of the Dreamcatcher’s bare feet sound on the polished floors._

  
  


_Somewhere, far away, Doctor Kincaid is screaming._

  
  


_Somewhere, far away, Professor Miles is_ _ dying _ _, in a pool of blood and viscera._

  
  


_And in the little disintegrating doll’s house, artificially constructed, a door that should have been bricked up opens, creaking slightly as it does so, the space between the Dreaming and reality straining just a little._

  
  


_Dream of the Endless steps through it, into Rever’s laboratory, and his presence causes Doctor Kincaid to fall silent. Dom Cobb looks up. Arthur opens his eyes. Eames and Ariadne stare. John Constantine snorts disdainfully and lights a cigarette._

  
  


“ _What took you so long?” he says, casually as you like. As if he was expecting the Lord of Dreams to turn up. Eames wonders, in this moment, just exactly how much John Constantine really knew about this case. Eames wonders at the complexity of the plan. It is truly stunning._

  
  


_The Dreamcatcher turns around, and prepares to cast its nets over Dream, Sandman and anti-Sandman facing one another down. The Lord of Dreams waves a hand._

  
  


“ _Your kind have their own Rules. You do not transgress into my realm. I know your people are taken to feeding upon human minds and thoughts, such is what you live on. But dreams are out of bounds. Leave, now, and I will let you live.”_

  
  


_Leave._

  
  


_It is an ultimatum. It is the honourable move._

  
_Parasites are not, by nature, honourable, however. The Dreamcatcher launches its nets forwards, and the fight begins._

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dreamcatcher and the personification of Dream come head to head, while Dom realises what exactly has happened to his father-in-law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so one more chapter, which I will post some time in February, if all goes as planned, an epilogue concluding this story. Thank you so much for your support and I hope this works. And yes, the format has been swapped around for this, the final normal chapter before the conclusion.

**Chapter 11**

  
  


_There comes a point in any mission where it is time to bail. Sometimes this is when the money runs out. Other times it’s when a specific threat is in your way and the cost outweighs the potential benefits. And then you have the moment when you figure out you’ve been used, a pawn, that your employer told you less than what they should have, perhaps for noble reasons but their reasoning did not sting any less. Both Dom Cobb and Doctor Lisbeth Kincaid know this feeling intimately; from opposite sides of the looking-glass, in mirrored feelings of betrayal. While Dr Kincaid is disappointed because she has been entirely cheated, Dom’s feelings are complex. He too had been lied to, though he knows and understands why it had been necessary, he wishes he had been given the full story. And so he watches, unable to look away, as the nets tighten around the Sandman._

  
  


_Who waves a hand._

  
  


_Tight rope cords disintegrate, collapse, into sand._

  
  


_The Dreamcatcher’s eyes flash bright, with anger or fear, or something in between both, entirely unnameable. Then, its smile reprises, a mask. The Dreamcatcher is desperate. It is afraid._

  
  


_It looks around with panicked eyes, backing away, readying its talons for another attack._

  
  


_Why does it still fight, when it knows the fight is lost? The answer:_ _Because the fight is lost._ _Even when you know you are on the brink of the abyss, you persist regardless, and plunge into the depths never to return, stoop to new lows you would never have considered before. You do this because the alternative, surrender, leaves a bad taste in your mouth. There is to be no surrender, no compromise. Only death._

  
  


_When the options are change, or die, that is no choice at all._

  
  


_-_

  
  


Miles was almost certainly dead. He lay next to the anonymous patient in a pool of his own gore. Dom had dragged him into this, and Dom had got him killed, like Mal. It was his fault, all over again; Adelaide would never forgive him. If only the Dreamcatcher hadn’t lied. If only there was a way to reverse death, the greatest medical advancement mankind would never make. You could leave the Dreaming, but there was no release from the subtle sting of death. Nice theory. Bullshit in practise, but as a theory, nice. A nice little theory that had killed Miles.

  
  


Dom pulled himself over to the body of his unconscious father-in-law and listened for a pulse. Before he could discern any details, he was thrown to the side by a stray fishing net.

  
  


Of all the jobs to take. Why couldn’t he have just done what he did with the Constantine gig and let some crazy Germans take it instead, let them suffer and bleed and die, in this world of magic and strangeness? Why couldn’t it have been someone else’s aged father-in-law, why couldn’t it have been somebody else? The Lord of Dreams had chosen them for this. But it was Dom who had brought Miles along. It was Dom’s _fault_ _._

  
  


The Dreamcatcher eyed the Dream-Lord, feinting left then striking again. Dream stepped back, moving fluidly to the side and in under the Dreamcatcher’s guard. It was the Dreamcatcher’s turn to go on the defensive, ducking around him and pulling away. The emerald on the Lord of Dream’s chest gleamed, in one hand he held a small pouch of infinite sand, infinite possibilities. Stepping back, he produced a helmet from the swathes of his robes, a contrastingly dark gas-mask that he raised up to place over his head.

  
  


“I wanted to speak to you face-to-face,” Dream said, and some of that strange softness slipped through. “I did not want it to come to this, please understand. I wanted to find a peaceful resolution. There is still time.”

  
  


_**do you really think so Dream-Lord did you think this could end any other way you are not the Dreamcatcher’s master you do not give commands** _

  
  


_**it comes to this, the brink of death, quick summon your dear sister and it will be the Dreamcatcher’s- it will be**_ _ **my**_ _**turn to walk into the Sunless Lands hand in hand and the beating of wings the wings**_

  
  


The not-quite voice, the echoing sound inside Dom’s head, seemed to linger now, heavy notes of sadness creeping in, with taunting fear, a cornered animal lashing out bitterly the only way it could. It lifted its nets again, but its movements were weary.

  
  


_**me**_ _**I**_ _**these are not words**_ _ **I**_ _**was supposed to need**_ _ **I**_ _**was supposed to have a family, a hivemind each of us, thinking in unison was not supposed -**_ _ **I**_ _**was not supposed to be alone, to be an ‘I’ was supposed to have siblings a**_ _ **family.**_

  
  


_**what is it like Dream-Lord what is it like to have a family?** _

  
  


Dream hesitated, holding the helmet, paused where he was. “It is given too much stock, I think. Yes. Families are no certainty to peace, rather, they are an obstacle to it more often than not. They do not make life simpler. They complicate it, correct, Mr Cobb?”

  
  


Dom looked up from the unconscious form of his father-in-law and nodded wordlessly.

  
  


“Can second that one, mate,” Constantine piped up, sarcastic as ever. “More trouble than they’re worth.” His contribution was, although abrasive, welcome, and actually useful for once, rather than just plain rude.

  
  


_**is that it?**_ the Dreamcatcher queried, puzzled.   _ **have been doing all this to summon my kind with adequate food supply, provide them with dreams dreams dreams for usss to consume**_ _ **together**_ _**and then you say I have acted in error that companionship and kindred are a hindrance that I was mistaken how could I be mistaken?**_

  
  


_**knew what I had to do** _

_**always knew** _

_**have acted as I knew to act** _

  
  


“It is your nature to consume.” Dream lowered the helmet and put it away. “The damage you have done to my Realm will take me much time to repair. However, we may be able to come to some arrangement if you will agree to adhere to the Rules in future.”

  
  


A slow, lazy shrug on the part of the Dreamcatcher.

  
  


_**should not let myself be so easily swayed should hold fast and yet and yet I see no reason to continue this fight I agree to your terms** _

  
  


_**surrender** _

  
  


_**compromise** _

“You’re going to let it get away with this?” Dom couldn’t control his anger. “It just killed my father-in-law. You lied to us about the job, you lied to us about the risk, used us as a distraction, and now you’re making a decision without our consultation. What can you give us to make up for _that_?”

  
  


“Leave it, mate,” Constantine interrupted. “These types have their methods. It’ll be sorted.”

  
  


“I just lost my father-in law, for god’s sake...”

  
  


“Inevitable. He’ll be in good company, joining the long list of my friends and acquaintances who’ve suffered an untimely push from their mortal coil. I was surprised he was still alive up to now, to be honest, but like I said, he always was a bit boring.”

  
  


For a moment Dom was speechless. “Are you really this callous? What is it, so many people died around you it doesn’t bother you anymore?”

  
  


“With all respect Cobb, I know you were close, was that really a clever thing to say to-” Eames threw a pointed look at John Constantine then trailed off.

  
  


The notorious occultist looked a lot older all of a sudden, nowhere near as furious as Dom would have expected. All the lines and worn scars on his face seemed to cut deeper, as he shook his head and sighed, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. “Good one. Low blow. Can’t say I didn’t deserve it, I was being a bit of a shit after all, sorry ‘bout that. You see enough of this, y’know, you have to make a joke of it or it drives you mental.” He spoke with the weight of experience, of a man who had been inside psychiatric institutes on-and-off for years, who had dealt with that burden. Who lived in this world of supernatural murder. This was hardly the worst he’d ever seen, after all. “You think I’m happy with our fates being handed to us on a platter by forces beyond our control? Almost all of my life has been spent fighting those same self-righteous twats who think they get to do what they like just because they’re extra-special. But out of them all, I’ve found that one-” he pointed at Dream “To be less of a prick. I wouldn’t say he’s my best mate, far from it, but he’s not a total tosspot. We need to let him deal with it, alright? Alright?” Dom nodded eventually. “So, Mr Sandman. The Dreamcatcher’s your problem. Now off you two trot, that’s it, and don’t come back anytime soon. And next time, just call me instead of getting these _amateurs_ involved.”

  
  


Amateurs. Normally Dom would be insulted, but he would concede that, in these matters, he was barely more than a child.

  
  


The pale figure of Dream and the darkness that was the Dreamcatcher melted away like mist, leaving the room surprisingly still, Doctor Lisbeth Kincaid in the background struggling to breathe, relief overwhelming her. She had lived.

  
  


She had lived and Miles was- Dom felt something, and then checked, scarcely willing to believe it. Yes. He wasn’t deceiving himself. After all that, Miles had a pulse.

  
  


He was alive.

  
  


-

  
  


Through a haze, Miles could hear Dom’s voice, arguing with that utter wanker Constantine. But it sounded far away, muffled and muted through layers of wool that blocked his ears, fog clouding his vision. He lay motionless, trying to rouse his brain and muster up the strength to do basically anything. Anything. Literally anything would do.

  
  


“Hello-o?” A female voice came loudly, from nearby. With a start, Miles opened his eyes, but nobody seemed to notice. He stood up, and found himself looking down on his bloodied, crumpled form. Shit. Not his finest hour, for sure.

  
  


Looking around the room, he saw a grinning young woman, dressed in all black, skinny jeans and a sleeveless top, with a head full of dark hair and a face of pale makeup, with black lips and curlicue designs around one of her eyes. There was an Ankh on a chain around her neck. She smiled when he saw her, a genuine, seemingly friendly smile. She did not put Miles at ease whatsoever. Rather, the opposite. He had a sinking suspicion he knew who she was, and he was really, really hoping he was wrong.

  
  


“Hiya!” Her teeth gleamed. “You know who I am, right? The introductions can be a little awkward, otherwise.”

  
  


“You’re Death,” Miles managed. “ _Teleute_. Sister to Dream. I’m dead.”

  
  


“No no no,” Death hurriedly shook her head. “You’re only _mostly-dead_. There’s a big difference between _mostly-dead_ and _all dead._ You see, _mostly-dead_ is _slightly alive_.” With that, she looked extremely pleased with herself. “That’s from the Princess Bride. You should know all about that, being a big part of extraction as you are, or used to be when you were younger. You know, a ‘ _dweam wivvin a dweam_ ’, that speech? I love that speech. Used to quote it at my brother all the time, after I saw the movie. It’s a classic.”

  
  


Miles rolled his eyes. Beings like this were prone to their whims. He did not, however, expect Death herself to be quite so... _whimsy_.

  
  


“That’s all well and good, but it answers nothing. Am I about to die? Are you pre-emptively striking while the iron is still hot, or, rather, while my body is still warm?”

  
  


Death laughed. “I like that one. Strike while the corpse is warm. Bit morbid though.”

  
  


“A bit morbid?” Miles raised his eyebrows “Perish the thought. There was me thinking you were Death.”

  
  


The cheerful ‘young’ woman shrugged. “Yeah, well, I don’t have to live up to the image do I? Do you see a scythe anywhere? Do you? Am I a walking skeleton? No. The least I can do is not be a complete downer about it.”

  
  


“So?” Miles asked, smiling despite himself. Death was actually quite a charming lady when you met her face-to-face. “Am I dying?”

  
  


“This is the part where I should say something like ‘Everybody’s dying’ but honestly that’s a broad overgeneralization. There are a lot of people who _aren’t_ dying. I mean it’s a cool one liner, but it’s been used so many times it’s become a little watered down. Anyway,” Death sat down in an office chair and casually spun around. “The answer to your question is ‘not presently’. You’re having a near-Death experience. Which means,” she grinned, and Miles groaned internally, knowing there was some witty reference on its way “I’m having a near-Miles experience.” Silence. “Oh come on, you must have read Discworld. Sir Terry. Great bloke. Met him a bit back, we had a fantastic time. Shame, isn’t it?”

  
  


“Yes, indeed.” Miles couldn’t argue with that. It had been genuinely quite moving. “So I’m going to live, then?”

  
  


Death seemed to think about it. “Well now you mention it, yes, you are. Have fun with it. Avoid any future encounters with creatures that have an unfortunate tendency to vivisect. Tell my stupid-head brother to call me more. All the usual. I’ll see you when I see you.”

  
  


With a rush of wings, Death was gone. Miles cursed the vagueness of those parting words.

  
  


Still.

  
  


He would get to live, just a little while longer. That was good. Closing his eyes, he found himself gradually returning to his body, re-adjusting to it, and recoiling into wakefulness, still on the cold floor. Dom was leaning over him.

  
  


“This bloody job,” he managed, letting out a wheezing chuckle. “This bloody job.”

  
  


Dom wiped his eyes, relief clearly overcoming him. “Yeah. I know. Just hold on, there’s an ambulance on the way.”

  
  


Arthur and Eames were actually not bickering for once, making sure the other was alright. Ariadne looked worried about her former teacher, coming in to wish him her best. “We thought we’d lost you,” she admitted. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  
  


Arthur came over now. “Did you manage to stop the bleeding?” Dom nodded. “Good. I’m so sorry about this, Professor. You didn’t need to be here, this didn’t need to happen. I should have left you in Paris.”

  
  


“Not your fault…you’re as bad as Dom.”

  
  


“Good show, old boy,” Eames interjected. “It’ll be fine. On another note, has anyone thought of what we’ll tell the police when they show up?”

  
  


“Oh, bollocks,” Constantine, in the background, muttered. “If I’m here, they’ll blame it on me. They always blame these things on me. You wanna tell ‘em anythin’, tell ‘em the patient went berserk attacked the prof and then mutilated himself to death. Trust me, they’ll go for it. They love their good old tried-and-tested ‘insane killer’ theory, don’t they?” He, certainly, was familiar with that, having been accused of murder several times and repeatedly institutionalised. Miles would have said he didn’t deserve it, but he’d always been a little uncomfortable around Constantine and wouldn’t have put it past him, quite honestly. “I mean, sure,” the magician continued “We blacken some poor sod’s name but that’s their own fault, innit? Shouldn’t have trusted the shady sleep clinic.” Sirens sounded a short distance away. “Aaaaaand that’s my cue to leave. Bye.”

  
  


With that, the obnoxious piece of work was gone, leaving the smell of tobacco behind him. Disappearing to god knew where. Good riddance.

  
  


Still. There was no denying he was useful.

  
  


He _had_ just given them their cover story, after all.

 

It was over. Rever were finished. Lying back, Miles listened to the sirens getting closer and closed his eyes. Dom was shouting, trying to keep him awake.

 

But Miles drifted off, into dreams, temporary, ephemeral dreams which he would wake from soon enough. He dreamt.

 

He dreamt of his daughter.

 

It was the beginning of a series of payments that would last for the next six months.

 


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things conclude. Vague, but an apt description. Destiny turns a page in his book and there are new beginnings and stories everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for supporting me through this. I hope this doesn't disappoint. Sorry it's late, I've suddenly developed a social life which is a first, so I have less time to write. Also I'm writing a book so have been focusing on that instead. Please leave comments, they really mean a lot.

**Epilogue**

 

Gradually, things seemed to settle down. Miles was in hospital for some months recovering, though he had made his mind up; he was retiring from teaching and spending the rest of his life writing up his memoirs. They would be a far-and-away bestseller, people would pick them up out of curiosity, intrigued by the great mysteries of extraction they loved to marvel at. One day, when it was safe, when enough time had passed between now and then, Dom could profit on his past too, write up the inception affair and publish it. Someone would make it into a heist movie with a twist. It’d make millions. 

 

In his life, what would this chapter be called? What title would he retroactively give it when he was an old man filled with regret? 

 

‘Dream, of the Endless Variety’.

 

That was that, then.

 

Dream.

 

-

 

They’d all stuck to the story Constantine had given them, except the traumatised Kincaid who’d screamed the truth to whoever did or didn’t want to hear it. Unsurprisingly, she had been committed to a psych ward, as you would inevitably be if you started shrieking about the personification of dreams fighting a monster with fish-hooks for fingernails. Poor woman. She had been trying her best, to fight against dreams and to fight against death. Her failure had left her destroyed.

 

It had ended Rever too, after the complications with the much-lauded procedure came to light. Dom and Arthur had reintroduced dreams to the patients, reopened their basic connection to the Dreaming so Dream of the Endless could do the rest. Everyone was returned to normal. 

 

And Miles was in hospital, and it was likely he would lose a leg.

 

-

 

He didn’t. The one in one hundred chance paid off. Luck was smiling on them. 

 

Miles formally retired, and his university called Dom, offering him a temporary position. Apparently, the idea had ‘come to them in a dream’.

 

Payment due. A legitimate job. No need to run extractions. The whole family could move to Paris, and James and Philippa would grow up in the city their mother had loved most. Why not? They were already bilingual. This was the next natural step.

 

“What about me?” Arthur had asked. “What do I do?”

 

“You’ve got Eames, haven’t you, and Ariadne’s one of the best architects I’ve seen. The three of you will make a great team.” Dom smiled. “Good luck.”

 

-

 

For Ariadne, working within the Dreaming again was everything she had wanted. Secretly though she loved designing her own work and seeing it built, running jobs with Arthur and Eames who were, frankly, amazing, what she loved most was walking the  _ real _ Dreaming, not their cheap mimicry. The castle, with its beautiful contradictions, the forests and mountains and rolling hills. 

 

She wasn’t sure how she managed to visit so often, but she found herself dreaming of it more and more, then waking to immediately attempt to sketch it, try to put those impossible lines down on paper.

 

Their payment had been the freedom to keep working jobs, but Ariadne was at times unsatisified with it. She had no idea what it was, but it felt like this wasn’t her path. Something else was written for her in the book of Destiny.

 

“Okay, so Ariadne? You keep guard and administer the kick when the alarm goes. Eames...Eames, are you paying attention?”

 

“What?”

 

“I thought not. Eames, your part of the plan is…?”

 

Eames rolled his eyes. “Important. Yes, you’ve said. I need to yell loudly in incoherent German. Fortunately for us, I’m fluent.”

 

“Really? Berlin, ‘99?” Arthur raised an eyebrow.

 

“I thought it...prudent to learn, after that debacle.”

 

“Just as well,” muttered Arthur. “For the record, I hate government jobs. They assign us neo-Nazi nuts, and then suddenly the best plan  _ you _ have is ‘pretend to be Hitler’. I hate this plan. Also, please stop hamming Hitler up. I mean I know he was a caricature, but we need to fool an actual fanboy. Not going to work if you z-snap like you did in rehearsal during the real thing. I can’t believe I actually have to say this, but Hitler was not a sassy black woman.”

 

“ _ Jawohl _ ,” Eames muttered, sarcastically. “You’re no fun, Arthur.”

 

“Yeah. I know.” 

 

“Guys, I know how much you love arguing constantly but this job  _ is  _ time-sensitive so…” Ariadne cut in.

 

“Oh, of course.” Eames nodded. “Well then, put us under.”

 

The job ran smoothly. They got in, they got out. This was their payment, the freedom to run jobs, and it was enough for Arthur and Eames who made an exceptional team when they weren’t at each other’s throats. Who appreciated it. For Ariadne, she still wanted more. There was a restlessness in her. She’d seen something more.

 

She’d seen the Dreaming. The real thing. Not cheap mimicry. 

 

Leaving Eames and Arthur to whatever it was they did when they were unaccompanied (Ariadne wasn’t sure), Ariadne decided to call in a favour. Her payment.

 

It wouldn’t be permanent. She knew what had happened to Dom when he stayed too long in Limbo. This would be different. She was physically moving from one place to another, crossing over between worlds. There would be no body asleep on the floor. She would be somewhere else.

 

The Dreaming.

 

Ariadne left the Waking World and stepped into the Realm of Dream. 

 

-

_ In the castle at the centre of the Dreaming, a new set of suites come into existence. Its design is discussed with and agreed upon by the new guest.  _

 

_ She is a qualified architect, and she has all of impossibility to play with. That was what had drawn her to extraction. And it is now what draws her deeper, down the rabbit hole like Alice, following a black raven instead as a white rabbit. _

 

_ The raven turns to the librarian and says  “ Lucien. Look, we’ve gotta tell him. It’s our duty. This’s all gonna end in disaster, we both know that. We’ve seen this before...” _

 

_ “Ah yes, we have, with our previous Lord, however. Regardless, Matthew, I never thought I’d hear the day you started going on about our duty. We are his servants.” _

 

_ “And I’m his  _ _ friend _ _.” Matthew emphasises. “It’s possible to be both. I’m gonna tell him.” _

 

_ “Then he will listen. He values your advice. Tell me, Matthew, do you think we ought to protect him at all costs? To what end do we go? He is the Lord of Dreams. I know, you call him ‘the kid’, but you forget. One day everyone needs to make new choices, experience things, adapt. If you protect someone from everything, when the time comes, how can they survive?” _

 

_ Matthew sighs. “I never thought  _ _ I’d  _ _ see the day you started to approve of this.” _

 

_ “Oh, I don’t,” Lucien replied. “I think  _ _ he _ _ is capable of finding these things out for himself.” _

 

_ “You’re still too reluctant to contradict him.” _

 

_ “And you are too eager,” the librarian replies. “Now, I have a selection of volumes to file. We both have work to be getting on with. Rather than speculating on what might be, I suggest we leave that to our Lord’s eldest brother, and get along with our own business.” _

 

_ “If you’re telling me to stay in my lane, just say it. Jeez.” The raven flies off, muttering slightly. Ariadne, who was listening to the conversation, ducked behind a bookshelf to avoid him spotting her. She headed back to her rooms to work on some new designs she was thinking of. _

 

_ Nothing changed. _

 

_ The Dreamcatcher was set to herding stray nightmares, devouring them when they misbehaved. So long as it kept in line, it would be allowed to live. It had a function. It was no longer incomplete, no longer a jigsaw piece of a hivemind. The Dreamcatcher was an individual.  _

 

_ Everything changed. Everything, and nothing.  _

 

_ Change or die, that had been its choice. It had chosen change.  _

 

_ Unlike certain parties, it was capable of that. _

 

_ - _

  
  


John Constantine’s payment came a few months later. He’d been having a low patch, which happened, more frequently than he liked to admit sometimes, when the nightmares stopped abruptly. Gary, Hell, Cheryl, the guilty, agonising dreams he was plagued by suddenly ceased. That wasn’t to say he stopped having nightmares altogether, they were just different now. The dreams he’d lost were those he felt most ashamed of. Those that remained were of things like demons tearing him limb from limb, which wasn’t ideal, but at least he didn’t feel personally responsible for the fate of someone else. He dreamt of things that might happen. He dreamt of monsters under the bed.

 

What he didn’t dream of was his own numerous failures. And this was probably the best balance possible.  Keeping the useful dreams, part-exchanging the self-loathing for simpler things, nasty noises in the night and eldritch abominations in the cupboard. His ghosts started to drift, and some of them moved on. He wasn’t sure if that was part of the arrangement now, or just a coincidence. His ghosts always vanished when things started to pick up. Eventually he knew they’d be back. They always were.

 

Getting himself together, he decided what the hell, he’d meet up with Chas. It had been a few months since they’d spoken, just after the Rever debacle. They’d arranged to go out for drinks and John had never showed. Once again he’d vanished. That had been several months ago now. 

 

And Chas’ normal life would have resumed as always. Maybe, John wondered, maybe it was time to stay gone. Chas didn’t deserve dragging back into this. Maybe he should just let Chas be. At least then Renee would be happy, if that bitch ever was. She’d be overjoyed that John was out of the picture. And Chas? 

 

Chas’d be out with those stupid mates of his, the ones who were thick as two short planks and presumably inbred, judging by everything else about them. They hadn’t changed since they were teenagers, which was why they had been left behind on the evolutionary ladder along with monkeys and the average footie supporter. And this’d be fine and dandy but bloody boring. Also, from prior experience, John was getting the hint most people liked to know if their best friend was alive or not. 

 

So he called Chas, who told him to piss off initially and wanted to know where the fuck he’d been, but eventually relented and soon enough they were on speaking terms again. 

 

The worst nightmares were gone, and the ghosts had cleared off. Life could get back to what resembled normal, as close to it as he could hope for. Briefly he considered quitting magic altogether and living through cons instead, but no. That had never worked in the past.

 

Magic was his lifeblood, as dreams were for other people. Normality didn’t get much of a look in. Except of course, when he went out for drinks down the pub, and there was a match on the background and no Lords of Hell on his back, and he was just that bloke in the funny coat at the end of the bar, and everything was coloured by the light at the bottom of the glass. That was when things were good. It never lasted, but it didn’t need to.

 

It just  _ was _ . 

 

At least, until he started a fight with some local yobs and got himself and Chas kicked out after glassing one of them and ‘putting a spell’ on another that made him believe he was vomiting razor blades (there was no real magic in it, he tried to explain that but they were all too pissed off with him to listen), at which point he’d taken a punch to the face and gone down, would have a right old black eye in the morning. Chas had managed to drag them out, kicking the shit out of two of the bastards in the process. They’d made it onto the street, the landlord had yelled after them that they were banned, and now they were making their way back to Chas’ cab. It was like many times. This wasn’t deja vu, it was something that actually  _ had _ happened before. And it would inevitably happen again, at a different pub, with different yobs, maybe he’d get a punch in himself, maybe he’d be the one to get glassed, whatever sequence of events, nothing really changed.

 

“What the fuck’d you ‘ave to do that for, Constantine?” Chas muttered. “Why’d I bother? Yer always like this.”

 

“I know,” he smirked “You should get yourself some better mates.”

 

Chas thought for a moment. “Nah. Bit late for that. I should get home anyway, or the missus’ll kill me. See you.”

 

Then he was off, and there was just John, walking down the street alone. He looked up at the sky and remembered a time when he had been able to see the Aboriginal Australian Dreamtime, the coloured swirls and whorls in reality. Was there an aspect of Dream of the Endless manning that Dreamtime? Did they change when Morpheus did? 

 

He looked up at the sky, and for a moment he saw the big picture, and then before he could put it into words it was gone, replaced with the beginnings of what promised to be a monstrous hangover. Brushing the feeling off, he lit a cigarette and walked off into the darkness of the London streets until he was gone.

 

-

 

_ And in his garden, Destiny of the Endless turns the page of his book. Another story begins, somewhere, but it always does. _

 

_ In Manchester a burning cat terrorises the streets of Chinatown, yowling in agony each night. Its eyes shine with a thousand-year-old anger. It burns, and it shrieks, in a permanent cycle of death and life, living and dying and burning, always burning. There are videos on youtube shared as warnings about animal abuse. They are not. And still the cat burns. _

 

_ Somewhere as yet unnamed, the last three survivors of a tribe are driven by something, forced to wipe themselves out, in an act of brutal ritual cannibalism that will puzzle the anthropologists who find them for generations to come...  _

 

_...in Kingston, Jamaica, a young boy vomits up his own parasitic twin, who promptly assumes his brother’s identity and starts living his life instead. The original child is seen only twice after this, before he vanishes, replaced by his superior sibling... _

 

_ In London, John Constantine, a man all too familiar with the better twin thing albeit via annoying haunting and manipulation from his alternate universe sibling,  wanders the streets aimlessly, putting one foot in front of the other, going wherever the world takes him. There’s a theory about this called synchronicity, but that is the realm of the Laughing Magician, and technically he isn’t that person.  _ _ Technically _ _. The world had, and still has other ideas.  _

 

_ in Paris a plane lands and Dom Cobb and his family get off, and set about making a new start. The start they should have had long ago  _

 

_ in Texas two extractors enter a neo-Nazi’s dreams, one of them posing as Hitler. They find his plans for attacks on Jewish and Muslim places of worship and sell the information to the government. Eames and Arthur emerge, and wonder where Ariadne is _

 

_ in the Dreaming, Ariadne is busy. In the Dreaming, the Dreamcatcher cleans up superfluous ideas. In the Dreaming, there is a raven, and a writing desk, at which sits a librarian whose task it is to catalogue unwritten books. _

 

_ In the Dreaming, the Prince of Stories has work to be done. _

 

_ And in the Dreaming, in those shifting sands right on the edge, only memories remain.  _


End file.
